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I 


Ikrmrwt,En«?ty 


rjndr^  &Jf>V 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES: 


A 


COLLECTION 


SKETCHES  AND  LETTERS. 


/i 

vK 


BY 


GRACE  GREENWOOD. 


SECOND  SERIES. 

4 


BOSTON: 

TICKNOR,  REED,  AND  FIELDS. 

M  DCCC  LIV. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1851,  by 
SARA  J.  CLARKE, 

In  tbe  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


THURSTON,  TORRY,  AND  EMERSON,  PRINTERS* 


s/s 

L&i% 

<3£v,  ^ 


% 

TO  DR.  G.  BAILEY, 


Of  Washington,  D.  C. 


In  hanging  underneath  your  name,  half  playfully,  half  affec¬ 
tionately,  this  rude  wreath  of  woven  leaves,  I  am  conscious  of 
having  two  distinct  ends  in  view.  In  the  first  place,  I  mean  this 
Dedication  to  be  a  sort  of  an  indicator  of  the  tone  and  character  of 
my  volume.  As  earnestly  as  I  desire  to  speak  my  uninspired,  unpol¬ 
ished,  but  most  sincere  words  to  the  many,  I  would  not  be  accused 
of  obtaining  readers  under  false  pretences.  I  would  not  put  forth 
a  volume,  purporting  to  be  merely  a  collection  of  light  romances 
and  gossipping  letters,  wherein  are  avowed  certain  moral  senti¬ 
ments,  on  which  there  exists  a  wide  and  warm  difference  of 
opinion,  —  wherein  grave  political  questions  are  treated  freely, 
if  not  irreverently,  and  £  the  weightier  matters  of  the  law  ’  dis¬ 
cussed,  it  may  be  thought,  somewhat  lawlessly.  Then  let  your 
name,  my  friend,  as  it  stands  here,  say  to  whoever  looks  upon  this 
page,  that  in  those  that  follow,  he  must  expect  sometimes  to  meet 
the  expression  of  the  sentiments,  the  principles,  the  vital  truths 
so  long  advocated  by  your  brilliant  and  fearless  pen,  and  by  a 
brave  and  faithful  life,  more  eloquent  than  any  written  word. 
Yes,  let  your  name,  if  it  will,  act  as  a  noli  me  tangere  warning 


to  the  tender  conservative,  the  fastidious  and  exclusive  lover  of 
romance  and  poetry,  the  nervous  shrinker  from  moral  agitation 
and  political  discussion. 

I  have  yet  a  hope,  that  some  who  have  small  appetite  for  such 
moral  food  as  I  set  before  my  readers,  will  yet  not  reject  it  for 


IV 


DEDICATION. 


this  foretaste  of  its  quality,  but  will  allow  it  to  be  neithei  stale 
nor  unhealthful,  though  scarcely  flattering  to  the  palate.  Though 
they  may  not  ‘look  to  gather  grapes  of  thorns,  or  figs  of  thistles,’ 
they  will,  I  am  sure,  admit  that  the  thorn  has  its  fragrant  and 
‘milk-white’  flowers,  and  that  even  the  thistle,  under  its  outside 
roughness,  has  a  homely  sweetness  of  its  own,  Apparent  to  other 
than  asinine  perception  —  a  pleasure  not  alone  for  the  small  bird 
and  searching  bee,  but  for  whoever  is  bold  enough  to  grasp  and 
tear  apart  the  prickly  calix,  and  so  come  upon  the  honey  and  the 
bloom.  Ah,  those  who  have  tasted  alone  can  tell  of  the  freshness, 
the  glow,  the  inner  sweetness  of  a  rough,  strong,  uninviting, 
unpopular  truth. 

The  second  object  which  I  have  in  view,  or  rather  at  heart, 
in  this  dedication,  is,  I  must  confess,  somewhat  less  unselfish  than 
the  first.  I  do  not  alone  seek  thus  to  indulge  a  natural  vanity, 
by  acknowledging  the  kindly  relations  which  exist  between  us 
tWo,  — I  have  a  higher  pride,  in  letting  the  world  know  that 
Freedom  and  I  have  one  and  the  same  friend. 

GRACE  GREENWOOD. 


c  0  N  T  E  N  T  S . 


Philip  Hamilton  and  his  Mother . 

The  two  Thompsons . 

The  Step-Mother . 

The  Irish  Patriots  of  ’48 . 

A  Mere  Act  of  Humanity . 

Effie  Mather . 

Apollonia  Jagiello . 

The  Volunteer . 

The  Poetry  of  Whittier . 

The  Darkened  Casement . 

Dora’s  Children . 

A  few  Words  about  Actors  and  Plays  . 

The  Story  of  a  Violet  . 


1 

19 

31 

48 

56 

69 

93 

100 

122 

133 

147 

201 

215 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


Letter  i 
“  ii 
“  in 

“  IV 
“  V 
“  VI 


.  220 
.  223 
.  228 
.  230 
.  234 
.  237 


VI 


CONTENTS 


Letter. 

VII  .  . 

it 

VIII  .  . 

tt 

IX  .  . 

tt 

X  . 

tt 

XI  . 

tt 

XII  . 

tt 

XIII  . 

tt 

tt 

XV  . 

tt 

XVI  . 

tt 

XVII  . 

tt 

tt 

XIX  . 

tt 

XX  . 

tt 

XXI  . 

tt 

XXII  . 

tt 

XXIII  . 

tt 

tt 

tt 

tt 

XXVII  . 

tt 

tt 

XXIX  . 

tt 

tt 

XXXI  . 

tt 

XXXII  . 

tt 

XXXIII  . 

“  XXXIV  . 
“  XXXV  . 
“  XXXVI  . 


239 
242 
,  245 
.  248 
.  252 
.  257 
.  261 
.  265 
.  269 
.  274 
.  280 
.  284 
.  289 
.  292 
.  296 
.  300 
.  302 
.  305 
.  309 
.313 
.  318 
.  322 
.  327 
.  330 
.  334 
.  338 
.  342 
.  347 
.  351 
.  356 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

9 

Letter  xxxvii . 359 

“  xxxvm . 365 

“  xxxix . 369 

EDITORIAL. 


Preachers  and  Politics  —  A  Contrast  ....  374 


GREENWOOD  LEAYES. 


SECOND  S  ERI  ES. 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 

I  remember  to  have  spent  a  few  weeks  of  last  autumn 
with  a  dear  friend,  the  wife  of  an  eminent  physician  in  one 
of  our  inland  cities.  My  friend  was  a  woman  of  fine  intel¬ 
lect,  much  feeling,  and  large  experience  of  life.  She  was 
a  delightful  companion,  an  admirable  hostess  :  and  I  shall 
never  cease  to  think  of  her  with  grateful  and  pleasurable 
emotions. 

One  rainy,  October  day,  Mrs.  Allen,  her  eldest  daughter, 
and  myself  were  together,  in  the  pleasant  little  library, 
where  we  usually  spent  our  mornings.  Mrs.  Allen,  I  re¬ 
member,  was  seated  with  a  huge  work-basket  at  her  side, 
busily  engaged  in.  darning  hose,  of  all  sizes,  from  the 
ample  sock  of  the  stout  doctor,  down  to  the  wee  stocking 
of  little  Jenny.  Miss  Laura  was  bending  gracefully  over 
her  embroidery  frame  ;  and  I  was  reclining,  after  my  own 
indolent  fashion,  on  a  comfortable  lounge,  reading  aloud  the 
‘Princess’  of  Tennyson;  drowning  the  sound  of  the  storm 
without  by  the  sweet  musical  flow  of  its  verse,  filling  the 
darkened  hours  with  the  golden  enchantment  of  its  gay 
romance.  This  was  our  second  reading  ;  and,  after  an 
1 


2 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


hour  or  two,  the  volume  was  finished.  As  I  re-read,  softly 
and  lingeringly,  that  last  line  of  the  story, 

t  - 

<  Lay  thy  sweet  hands  in  mine,  and  trust  to  me/ 

and  then  closed  the  book,  I  remember  that  Mrs.  Allen  and 
Laura  looked  up  from  their  work,  saying,  sadly,  as  with 
one  voice,  4  Is  that  all  ?  ’ 

I  remained  silent,  with  a.  listless,  dreamy  recollection  of 
pleasure  ;  my  thoughts  still  chiming  to  the  delicious  melody 
of  that  unique  and  delightful  poem.  After  awhile,  I  raised 
my  eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  a  picture,  on  the  opposite 
wall  —  a  portrait,  which  I  had  not  before  noticed  particu¬ 
larly. 

‘That  is  a  very  lovely  face,  Mrs.  Allen,’  I  remarked. 
4  Is  it  the  likeness  of  any  one  of  your  family  ?  ’ 

4  No,’  she  replied  ;  4  the  original  was  not  even  a  relative, 
but  was  the  dearest  and  most  intimate  friend  of  my  early 
life.  Pray  tell  me  what  you  read  in  her  face.’ 

4 1  should  say  that  the  lady  possessed  great  sweetness  and 
pliancy  of  disposition  ;  a  thoughtful,  but  not  by  any  means 
a  powerful  mind.  I  should  say  that  she  was  exceedinglv 
sensitive,  capable  of  intense  suffering,  but  quite  incapable 
of  defending  herself  from  wrong,  or  even  of  resenting  it 
with  much  spirit.’ 

4  You  are  quite  right,’  said  my  friend,  1  you  have  read  her 
character  very  clearly.  Ah,  poor  girl,  she  had  a  sad  history 
of  her  own.  Should  you  like  to  hear  it  ?  ’ 

4  Oh,  by  all  means  !  ’  was  my  reply. 

My  friend  laid  aside  her  work  ;  and,  fixing  her  eyes  on 
the  picture  for  a  moment,  began  her  simple  narrative,  which 
I  will  endeavor  to  give  in  her  own  words,  as  near  as  I  can 
remember. 

Laura  Ellerton  (you  see  that  I  named  my  daughter  for 
this  friend)  was  my  school-mate  and  room-mate  for  three 
years ;  and  we  became,  from  necessity  and  inclination, 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


most  intimate  and  tenderly  attached.  Laura  was  a  singu¬ 
larly  unselfish,  humble,  and  affectionate  being,  for  one  so 
beautiful,  gifted,  and  attractive,  every  way,  as  she  then  was. 
That  portrait  does  not  give  one  a  just  idea  of  her  eaily 
loveliness,  as  it  was  taken  at  the  age  of  twenty-five,  when 
she  had  already  begun  to  fade.  Laura  was  not  wealthy. 
Her  mother  was  a  widow  of  limited  means,  who,  mother¬ 
like,  often  deprived  herself  of  the  very  comforts  of  life  to  be 
able  to  educate  thoroughly  and  dress  tastefully  her  idolized 
daughter. 

After  leaving  school,  my  friend  and  I,  as  might  have 
been  expected,  kept  up  a  brisk  and  voluminous  coiiespond- 
ence.  For  the  first  year,  our  letters  were  filled  with  those 
little  nothings,  descriptions  of  parties,  dresses,  rides,  and 
rambles ;  all  the  small  events  and  innocent  gayciies  which 
form  the  life  of  young  girls  who  are  just  going  into  society ; 
but  after  that,  they  gradually  grew  more  thoughtful  and  con¬ 
fidential.  I  believe  that  I  was  first  in  love  and  engaged  ; 
but  being  rather  careful  and  sensitive,  said  as  little  as  pos¬ 
sible,  even  to  her,  on  my  heart  ahairs.  But  Lauia  was  one 
to  whom  sympathy  was  a  very  necessity,  air,  life.  First 
came  significant  hints  about  a  certain  young  lawyer,  who 
had  lately  settled  at  R - ;  then  followed  glowing  descrip¬ 

tions  of  his  superb  figure,  his  splendidly  handsome  face  ; 
and  enthusiastic  praises  of  his  genius,  his  acquirements, 
and  the  quiet  elegance  of  his  manner.  His  attentions  iO 
her  were  gratefully  chronicled,  and  all  his  little  compli¬ 
ments  minutely,  yet  modestly  reported.  At  first,  it  was 
‘  Mr.  Kingsbury  ;  ’  but  after  a  little  while,  it  was  ‘  Arthur 
Kingsbury  5’  and  in  a  very  short  time,  it  was  ‘  dear  Arthui. 
They  were  engaged.  Ah,  then,  what  letters  she  wrote! 
How  full  of  sentiment,  happiness,  gratitude,  love  —  no,  love 
is  a  feeble  word  —  adoration.  She  absolutely  worshipped 
her  handsome  and  gifted  lover  ;  an  homage  most  sweet  and 
delightful  to  the  interesting  idol,  doubtless,  but  which  it  was 
unworthy  weakness  in  her  to  yield.  fIhus  she  continued  to 


4 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


write  for  nearly  a  year,  and  then  her  letters  suddenly  ceased 
altogether.  About  that  time  I  was  married.  I  wrote  to 
Laura,  reminding  her  of  an  old  promise  to  be  my  brides¬ 
maid.  I  only  received,  in  reply,  a  few  hurried  lines  from 
Mrs.  Ellerton,  stating  that  her  daughter  could  not  possibly 
attend  the  wedding,  as  she  was  considerably  out  of  health  ; 
but  that  she  sent  her  4  dearest  loye  ’  and  4  fondest  wishes.’ 

On  my  return  from  our  bridal  tour,  I  wrote  again  to 
Laura,  intreating  her  to  write  and  relieve  my  great  anxiety. 
She  did  write,  at  last ;  and  such  a  letter  !  It  was  sad,  and 
touching  beyond  description.  It  was  blotted  with  tears  — 
was  itself  like  the  long,  low  sob  of  a  broken  heart.  Her 
lover  had  left  her;  was  already  married  to  another!  and  yet 
there  was  no  bitterness,  no  harsh  resentment  in  her  feeling 
toward  him.  But  stay,  I  have  that  letter  in  my  writing- 
desk.  Here  it  is.  After  making  the  announcement  I  have 
mentioned,  she  writes  thus  :  — 

4 1  heard  for  some  time,  hints  and  whispers  concerning 
Arthur’s  attentions  to  Miss  Earle,  a  lady  of  high  connec¬ 
tions  and  considerable  fortune,  who  was  visiting  in  our  vil¬ 
lage  ;  but  I  could  not  believe  that  his  heart  was  turned  from 
me,  until  he  himself  came  to  me,  and  requested  to  be  re¬ 
leased  from  his  engagement ;  telling  me  that  he  had  been 
mistaken  in  thinking  that  he  loved  me  as  deeply  as  he  might 
love.  He  begged  me  to  forgive  him  for  all  the  pain  he  had 
caused  me  ;  and  I  have  done  so,  even  as  I  hope  to  be  for¬ 
given  for  my  own  errors  and  sins. 

4  I  can  never  think,  as  others  think,  that  Arthur  has  been 
influenced  by  mercenary  motives.  Miss  Earle,  though  not 
very  young  nor  beautiful,  is  intellectual  and  highly  accom¬ 
plished  ;  and  you  know  that  I  am  neither.  Oh  !  how  vain 
and  presuming  I  have  been  ever  to  believe  that  he  could 
love  me,  a  simple  village  girl:  he,  with  his  glorious  genius, 
his  noble  presence,  and  all  his  rare  attainments.  Oh,  Alice, 
sometimes  comes  the  bitter,  bitter  thought  that  he  divined 
my  interest  in  him,  at  the  first,  and  was  led,  by  generous 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


5 


pity,  to  ask  me  for  the  love  which  he  knew  in  his  soul  was 
his  already  ! 

*  Dear  Alice,  do  not  think  hard  of  him.  How  could  he 
give  his  hand  to  me  when  there  was  one  he  so  much  pre¬ 
ferred  ?  He  looked  sadly  troubled  at  that  last  interview.  I 
saw  it,  and  pressed  my  hand  hard  against  my  heart,  to  keep 
down  the  sobs  and  shrieks  with  which  it  seemed  almost 
bursting.  1  did  not  reproach  him.  1  did  not  even  weep  ; 
and  though  I  was  quite  still  and  silent,  I  gave  him  my  hand 
kindly,  as  he  rose  to  go,  and  tried  to  smile  on  him  as  he 
looked  back  at  me  for  the  last  time. 

‘  I  remember  nothing  of  what  passed  after  that,  for  some 
days.  Dear  mother  tells  me  that  she  found  me  sitting  by 
the  table,  cold  and  white  as  marble,  and  utterly  insensible. 
I  believe  I  had  something  like  a  brain  fever  ;  but  I  was  not 
conscious  of  much  suffering.  Now  1  am  better,  much  better — - 
almost  well,  indeed,  though  my  kind  friends  are  yet  troubled 
by  my  colorless  cheek  and  languid  step.  During  the  day,  I 
try  to  be  cheerful  and  courageous,  for  deaf  mother’s  sake  ; 
but  at  night,  oh,  Alice,  at  night,  I  often  lie  awake  through 
long  hours,  dreadful  hours,  and  weep  in  my  lonely  sorrow, 
till  my  very  heart  seems  dissolved  in  tears.  Then,  I  some¬ 
times  reach  up  my  clasped  hands,  and  cry,  through  the 
darkness,  “  Oh,  Father  in  heaven,  have  mercy  !  Bind  up 
my  wounded  heart,  and  fill  it  with  tliy  love  !  ”  Then  I 
pray  for  him  —  pray  that  his  life  may  be  rich  in  love  and 
crowned  with  blessings ;  and  so  I  always  grow  calm  and  fall 
asleep. 

‘  But  the  day  of  Arthur’s  marriage  —  ah,  I  must  unlearn 
my  heart  that  trick  of  calling  him  Arthur  —  I  mean  Mr. 
Kingsbury’s  marriage,  I  could  not  conceal  my  unhappiness. 
I  was  weak,  despairing,  almost  wild  ;  and  1  could  find  no 
rest  but  in  the  arms  of  my  mother,  pressed  close  against  her 
heart,  with  her  dear  hand  laid  on  my  hot  brow,  or  tenderly 
wiping  away  the  tears  which  gushed  forth  irrepressibly  and 
incessantly.  When  we  knew  that  the  hour  had  gone  by, 
1* 


6 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


dear  mother  prayed  in  a  low,  fervent  voice,  that  divine 
strength  might  be  given  to  her  child  to  overcome  that  love 
which  had  been  to  her  a  snare  and  a  temptation,  and  had 
now  become  a  sin.  When  she  ceased,  I  lifted  up  my  head 
calmly,  feeling  that  God’s  peace  had  descended  to  my 
heart. 

‘  Now,  dear  Alice,  do  not  be  troubled  for  me.  All  will  yet 
be  well.  I  need  only  patience,  and  trust  in  the  goodness  of 
our  Father,  who  knoweth  what  is  best  for  us.’ 

As  you  may  suppose,  I  shed  many  a  tear  over  this  touch¬ 
ing  letter  from  poor  Laura.  I  could  but  wonder,  however, 
that  she  bore  her  trial  so  well  ;  clingingly  dependent,  fond, 
and  devoted  as  I  knew  her  to  be.  I  think  I  was  right  in 
ascribing  much  of  her  strength  to  the  calm,  sustaining  affec¬ 
tion  of  her  mother. 

My  husband  and  I  both  wrote  to  Mrs.  Ellerton  and  Laura, 
inviting  them  to  spend  the  winter  with  us,  amid  all  the  fresh 
glories  and  new  dignities  of  young  housekeeping.  Mrs. 
Ellerton  replied  at  once,  accepting  the  invitation  for  her 
daughter ;  but  stating  that,  as  she  had  near  relatives  in 

P - ,  she  should  not  be  able  to  make  her  home  at  our 

house.  They  came  on  together,  however,  and  we  had  a 
pleasant  little  visit  from  Mrs.  Ellerton,  who  was  a  woman  of 
strong,  yet  beautiful  character.  ■ 

Laura  was,  indeed,  changed;  so  much  sunshine  had  faded 
from  her  face.  Then  she  had  grown  exceedingly  delicate, 
pale,  quiet ;  yet,  perhaps,  more  lovely  than  ever  —  a  sort  of 
moonlight  beauty.  WTen  we  were  alone  together,  I  found 
that  she,  unlike  her  former  self,  carefully  avoided  all  refer¬ 
ence  to  Kingsbury  ;  and  as  1,  for  my  part,  heartily  despised 
and  detested  the  man,  his  name  was  never  mentioned 
between  us. 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  winter.  Laura  gradually  re¬ 
gained  much  of  her  old  serene  cheerfulness,  and  endeared 
herself  greatly  to  our  hearts.  Ah,  her  music  !  I  never  can 
forget  it.  Her  playing  was  very  fine  ;  but  her  singing,  of 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


7 


Scotch  songs  and  old  ballads  especially,  was  something  pe¬ 
culiarly  and  indescribably  delightful.  There  was  one  who 
was  greatly  charmed  and  won  by  it,  and  by  the  sweet  singer 
herself.  This  was  Mr.  Hamilton,  a  constant  visitor  at  our 
house  —  a  distant  relative,  but  a  near  friend  of  my  husband. 
He  had  been  for  some  years  the  congressional  representative 
from  our  district,  and  was  a  man  of  worth  and  influence,  as 
well  as  of  distinction.  He  was  about  thirty-five,  and  had 
never  been  married. 

After  a  month  or  two,  it  became  quite  obvious  that  dear 
Laura  had  made  a  deep  impression  on  the  heart  of  our 
honorable  friend.  The  doctor  and  I  were  truly  delighted; 
Mrs.  Ellerton  seemed  pleased,  and  Laura,  apparently,  was 
not  displeased,  though  she  gave  no  evidence  of  being  seri¬ 
ously  impressed  in  her  turn.  Yet  when  she  found  that  she 
was  indeed  loved,  truly,  generously  and  tenderly  by  Mr. 
Hamilton,  her  heart,  so  lately  wounded  and  humiliated,  very 
naturally  went  out  toward  him,  in  a  glad,  affectionate  grati¬ 
tude,  which  was  almost  love.  But  hers  was  a  truthful  and 
honorable  nature;  and,  withdrawing  the  hand  which  she 
had  yielded  in  the  first  impulse  of  her  kindly  feeling,  and 
modestly  casting  down  her  eyes,  she  told  him  ail  the  sad 
story  of  her  love  and  her  sorrow.  When  this  was  finished, 
she  said,  in  a  low,  trembling  voice  :  ‘  So  it  is,  dear  friend, 
that  love  seems  to  have  withered,  died  in  my  heart ;  so  it  is 
that  I  can  only  give  you  a  tender  and  devoted  friendship . 
And  oh  !  what  a  return  were  this  for  your  beautiful  and 
noble  love,  with  all  its  fervency  and  concentration.’ 

Mr.  Hamilton  rose,  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
several  times,  with  a  troubled  brow.  He  had  hoped  for 
something  better  than  this  —  for  the  fresh,  impassioned  love, 
the  virgin  trust,  the  early  warmth  and  devotion  of  that  pure 
young  being.  But  presently,  he  paused,  and  looked  toward 
Laura.  She  was  sitting  by  the  table,  her  head  supported  by 
her  hand,  her  eyes  concealed  by  the  white,  slender  fingers  ; 
but  he  saw  that  her  cheek  paled  and  flushed,  and  her  lips 


8 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


quivered  incessantly.  He  drew  near  ;  and  gently  lilting  that 
fair  hand,  and  gazing  down  into  those  eyes,  those  mild  and 
earnest  eyes,  said,  1  And,  so  you  have  suffered,  dear  Laura  ; 
are  still  sorrowful.  Ah,  then^  more  than  ever  do  you  need 
such  tenderness  and  devotion  as  I  can  give  you.  If  it  is  not 
mine  to  console  you,  let  me,  at  least,  drink  part  of  your 
bitter  cup  ;  if  I  may  not  give  you  happiness,  let  me  share  in 
your  sorrows.’ 

The  generous  feeling,  the  4  loving  kindness  ’  ot  these 
words  quite  overcame  Laura  with  gratitude  and  admiration. 
She  rose  impulsively,  yet  timidly,  to  meet  his  extended 
arms,  and  smiling  and  weeping  alternately,  leaned  against 
his  breast,  feeling  that  she  had  there  found  protection, 
security  —  her  rest. 

On  the  anniversary  of  my  own  marriage,  there  was  a 
second  wedding  in  our  house  —  Laura  Ellerton  to  Augustus 
Hamilton. 

This  union  proved  a  happy  one  —  quietly  and  soberly 
happy.  Laura  was  a  good  wife  ;  neat,  careful,  cheerful, 
and  equable  in  temper  ;  and  Hamilton  was  altogether  the 
husband  so  generous  a  lover  promised  to  be. 

Durmg  the  third  year  of  her  wedded  life,  Mrs.  Hamilton 
suffered  a  great  bereavement  in  the  death  of  her  noble 
mother.  But  there  was  given  to  her  a  sweet  consoler  —  a 
dear  little  babe,  whose  loveliness  and  infant  smiles  had 
power  to  charm  trouble  from  all  her  thoughts.  She  named 
this  son  —  who  proved  an  only  child  —  Philip,  for  her  own 
father,  whom  she  pleasantly,  though  imperfectly  remem¬ 
bered. 

When  this  boy  was  about  nine  years  of  age,  Mr.  Hamil¬ 
ton  died,  very  suddenly,  from  a  disease  of  the  heart. 
My  husband  was  called  to  him  about  midnight,  and  by  day¬ 
break  he  was  dead.  The  doctor  said  that  he  suffered  much, 
and  was  scarcely  conscious  until  just  at  the  last,  when  he 
asked  for  his  4  dear  little  boy,’  kissed  the  frightened  and 
weeping  child  very  tenderly  ;  kissed  and  blessed  his  4  gentle 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


9 


wife,’  his  4  sweet  Laura,’  drew  her  fair  head  down  on  his 
bosom,  and  died. 

Laura  was  a  sincere,  though  not  a  passionate  and  de¬ 
spairing  mourner.  She  had  never  loved  her  husband 
passionately ;  but  she  had  loved  him  with  a  true  and  ever¬ 
growing  affection,  and  grieved  long  and  deeply  for  his 
loss. 

From  that  time,  she  gave  herself  up  with  singular  devo¬ 
tion,  to  the  care  and  education  of  her  darling  son,  of  whom 
she  had  been  left  sole  guardian.  And  Philip  was  no 
common  boy.  With  rare  beauty,  and  a  delicate,  nervous 
organization,  I  think  he  was  the  most  wondrously  precocious 
child  I  have  ever  known.  He  scarcely  seemed  a  child  ;  he 
had  few  of  the  habits,  and  little  or  no  taste  for  the  usual 
sports  of  children.  Studious,  poetical,  and  strangely  seri¬ 
ous,  he  cared  for  nothing  but  books,  music,  and  the  society 
of  his  mother.  His  love  for  his  beautiful  mother  was  a 
deep,  absorbing  sentiment  —  the  one  only  love  of  his  life. 
He  shrank  from  all  boyish  associates,  and  rough  out-door 
exercises,  suited  to  his  age  and  sex,  and  sought  only  to 
sit  by  her  side  and  pore  over  his  books,  hour  after  hour ; 
to  listen  to  her  singing  in  the  evening,  and  to  accompany 
her  in  her  short  strolls  and  unfrequent  drives. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  the  boy  grew  up  nervous,  pain¬ 
fully  sensitive  and  delicate  to  fragility ;  and  though  very 
lovely  and  interesting,  one  could  not  look  upon  his  pale, 
poetic  face,  or  gaze  once  into  his  large,  dark  eyes,  so  abso¬ 
lutely  luminous  with  soul,  without  sad,  foreboding  thoughts. 
The  angel  of  sorrow  seemed  to  have  set  his  seal  on  that 
high,  white  forehead  —  smooth  and  childish  forehead  though 
it  was. 

At  the  early  age  of  fourteen,  Philip  Hamilton,  after  pass¬ 
ing  a  brilliant  examination,  entered  college,  at  New  Haven. 

Ah,  then,  how  sad  and  lonely  became  the  life  of  his  poor 
mother.  She  had  literally  no  one  near  her  to  love.  My 
own  duties  and  cares  confined  me  almost  entirely  at  home, 


10 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


and  Laura  was  never  greatly  given  to  visiting  ;  so  we  were 
not  together  as  much  as  I  now  feel  that  we  should  have 
been. 

One  day  —  I  shall  never  forget  that  time  of  surprise  and 
bewilderment  —  I  went  over  to  Laura’s,  taking  my  work, 
thinking  to  spend  the  day  with  her,  hoping  thus  to  renew 
our  old  intimacy.  I  was  shown  into  the  parlor,  where  I 
found  my  friend,  seated  on  the  same  sofa  with  a  tall  and 
handsome  stranger  ;  a  man  of  about  forty-five,  I  should  say. 
This  person’s  face,  even  at  the  first  glance,  struck  me  as 
peculiar.  It  was  faultlessly,  coldly  regular.  The  lips  were 
full  and  warm,  yet  not  pliable  ;  hut  firm-set,  as  by  the  force 
of  a  strong  will.  His  eyes  were  blue,  yet  loooked  intensely 
dark,  from  a  certain  sternness  of  expression,  and  the  shadow¬ 
ing  of  the  thick,  black  eyelashes  and  projecting  brows. 

With  a  flushed  cheek  and  an  agitated  manner,  Laura 
presented  this  gentleman  as  Mr.  Kingsbury.  I  might  have 
known  it  was  he  !  He  rose,  and  bowed  courteously  ;  almost 
transfixing  me  with  a  keen,  searching  look  from  out  his  am¬ 
bushed  eyes.  I  found  him  rather  interesting  in  conversa¬ 
tion  ;  yet  there  was  a  sort  of  imperiousness  in  his  manner, 
and  a  superciliousness  in  his  voice,  which  disturbed  and 
annoyed  me  ;  and,  after  a  little  talk  with  Laura,  constrained 
on  both  sides,  I  took  leave  —  Laura,  for  the  first  time,  not 
urging  me  to  stay. 

On  my  return  home,  I  ascertained  from  my  husband,  that 
Mr.  Kingsbury  had  lately  returned  from  Europe,  where  he 
had  been  spending  a  number  of  years,  with  his  family;  that 
he  had  lost  his  wife  and  only  son,  in  Italy ;  and  was  now 
living,  very  modestly,  in  our  city,  on  the  s-mall  remains  of 
his  fortune,  with  his  daughter,  Miss  Antoinette,  a  showy  and 
handsome,  but  a  very  heartless  young  lady,  as  it  afterwards 

A  few  days  after  my  inopportune  call,  I  again  met  Mr. 
Kingsbury,  who  was  then  walking  out,  with  Laura  leaning 
on  his  arm.  They  did  not  at  first  perceive  the  doctor  and 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


11 


me.  They  were  strolling  along  very  slowly ;  the  gentleman 
looking  down  and  talking  earnestly,  while  Laura  looked  up 
with  a  most  confiding  expression  of  face.  I  thought  that  I 
never  had  seen  her  look  so  handsome  and  happy.  Oh,  this 
first  love  ! 

Thus  matters  went  on,  till  Laura  and  that  old  lover  of 
hers  —  thus  returned,  after  so  many  years,  to  his  allegiance 
—  became  almost  inseparable  ;  thus  went  on,  until,  one 
Sabbath  morning,  in  our  church,  the  proud  and  stately 
Arthur  Kingsbury  was  wedded  to  the  gentle  and  still  beau¬ 
tiful  widow  of  Augustus  Hamilton. 

For  the  next  year,  I  saw  less  than  ever  of  my  early 
friend,  as  neither  the  doctor  nor  myself  were  at  all  pleased 
with  her  lordly  husband,  who  seemed,  on  his  part,  to  regard 
us  with  distrust,  if  not  positive  dislike.  I  heard,  however, 
from  time  to  time,  painful  rumors  that  Laura’s  second  mar¬ 
riage  had  not  proved  so  happy  as  she  had  probably  hoped. 
Mr.  Kingsbury,  it  was  said,  was  a  stern  and  exacting,  yet 
careless  and  neglectful  husband ;  and  Miss  Antoinette  was 
far  from  affectionate  or  respectful  toward  her  step-mother. 

But  Laura  told  nothing  of  these  things  even  to  me,  to 
whom  the  paling  of  her  cheek  and  the  wanness  of  her  smile 
betrayed  that  all  was  not  well  in  her  home  and  in  her 
heart. 

But  with  the  second  year  of  her  second  union,  there 
came  a  new  and  terrible  sorrow  to  poor  Laura  —  a  sorrow 
which  she  could  not  hide.  Her  son  Philip,  her  beautiful 
and  gifted  boy,  was  brought  home  from  college  insane  ! 

Yes,  his  peculiar  habits  of  study,  his  devouring  passion 
for  acquirement,  his  intense  absorption  and  tireless  applica¬ 
tion,  robbing  him  of  sleep  and  wholesome  exercise,  had  at 
last  done  their  work  —  unstrung  his  nerves  and  disordered 
his  brain. 

The  poor  boy’s  case  was  not  pronounced  utterly  hopeless ; 
he  had  intervals  of  perfect  sanity,  though  his  frenzy  was 
very  violent  at  times.  It  happened,  unfortunately,  that  he 


12 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


took,  from  the  first,  a  terrible  dislike  to  his  step-father,  who 
was  weak  and  hard  enough  to  return  this  hatred  with  interest. 
Toward  his  mother,  Philip  was  always  gentle  and  tractable 
when  his  step-father  was  not  by  ;  but  not  even  her  presence 
could  repress  the  jealous  rage  and  defiant  scorn  which  the 
sight  of  her  husband  excited. 

Mr.  Kingsbury,  with  the  petty  malice  of  a  mean  spirit, 
resented  these  ravings  of  insanity ;  and,  in  his  cruel  heart, 
resolved  to  punish  the  poor,  crazed  boy.  To  this  end,  he 
dismissed  my  husband,  and  employed  a  physician  of  the 
old  school  — a  stanch  advocate  of  the  horrible  system  of 
curing  insanity  with  bolts  and  bars,  chains  and  scourging. 

I  have  been  told  that  Laura  went  down  on  her  knees  to  hei 
husband,  begging  that  her  dear  boy  might  not  be  confined 
in  the  rough  strait- waistcoat  prepared  for  him  ;  that  no 
chain  or  cord  might  touch  his  delicate  limbs ;  that  he  should 
not  be  humiliated  by  a  blow.  She  was  by  when  that  dailing 
son  was  first  struck  by  her  unfeeling  husband.  That  blow 
was  the  death-blow  to  her  own  poor  heart!  She  sprang 
forward,  and  caught  the  uplifted  arm  ot  the  angry  man. 
then  suddenly  reeled  and  fell  ;  and,  as  she  fell,  a  small, 
crimson  stream  oozed  from  her  lips.  She  had  ruptured  a 
blood-vessel ! 

After  this,  Laura  was  very  ill  for  some  weeks,  and 
though  she  so  far  recovered  as  to  be  able  to  walk  about  her 
room,  and  even  to  ride  out  occasionally,  she  never  was  wTell 
again. 

In  his  seasons  of  sanity,  Philip  was  always  at  her  side  ; 
and  never  was  there  a  more  tender  and  assiduous  nurse. 
When  his  fits  of  frenzy  came  one,  he  would  be  taken  from 
her  and  confined  in  a  small,  scantily  furnished  room,  in  a 
remote  wing  of  the  large  house,  and  she  would  see  and 
know  no  more  of  him  for  some  days.  But  his  wild  cries 
would  sometimes  reach  her  in  the  still  night-hours,  while 
her  troubled  heart  was  keeping  the  vigils  of  its  sorrow ;  but 
she  dared  not  stir,  or  weep  aloud,  for  fear  she  should  disturb 
the  soulless  slumberer  at  her  side. 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


13 


Most  fortunately,  Philip  had  no  distinct  recollection  of 
what  passed  in  his  periods  of  insanity,  and,  when  himself, 
was  courteous  in  his  manner  toward  Mr.  Kingsbury  and  his 
daughter ;  and  yet  one  might  observe  an  instinctive  and 
involuntary  shrinking  from  them  both  at  all  times. 

As  Laura  drooped  and  failed,  I  visited  her  more  frequent¬ 
ly,  and  spent  many  hours  in  her  sick  room.  I  saw  that 
Philip  clung  to  her  more  and  more  closely  as  it  became 
evident,  even  to  him,  that  she  was  about  to  leave  us.  It 
was  touching  to  witness  the  intense,  anguished  solicitude  of 
his  deep,  idolatrous  love.  And,  oh,  it  was  affecting  beyond 
description,  to  see  the  poor  boy,  as  his  sudden  frenzy  came 
on,  torn  from  the  very  bedside  of  his  dying  mother,  and 
remanded  to  his  cheerless,  solitary  confinement. 

At  her  pleading  request,  my  husband  attended  Mrs.  Kings¬ 
bury  as  her  physician.  He  saw  at  once  that  her  fate  was 
sealed,  that  she  was  dying ;  and  though  he  visited  her 
constantly  and  gave  her  medicine,  week  after  week  and 
month  after  month,  he  felt  that  all  was  of  no  avail,  and 
this  he  frankly  told  her.  She  received  the  sad  intelligence 
with  meek  resignation,  though  she  grieved  much  at  the 
thought  of  leaving  her  poor,  afflicted  boy  to  the  utter  deso¬ 
lation  and  peculiar  sorrow  of  his  lot. 

I  well  remember  the  last  dread  hour,  the  deathbed  scene. 
It  was  just  at  midnight  that  she  died.  I  had  been  with  her 
all  the  afternoon  and  evening.  Doctor  Allen  came  in  about 
ten  o’clock,  and  was  immediately  struck  by  the  change 
which  had  taken  place  in  the  sufferer.  I  had  thought  her 
asleep,  but  he  pronounced  her  insensible.  In  this  state  she 
remained  for  more  than  an  hour  longer;  then  she  revived, 
and  seemed  quite  herself.  In  a  low  tone,  she  asked  for  her 
husband.  Mr.  Kingsbury  came  forward,  and  took  her  hand 
in  his.  Laura  raised  to  his  face  a  timid,  appealing  look,  as 
she  said,  4  Dear  Arthur,  if  I  have  not  been  in  all  things 
a  loving  and  obedient  wife,  say  you  forgive  me,  before  I 
go.’ 


o 


14 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


‘  Oh,  Laura,’  he  murmured,  4  it  is  for  you  to  forgive. 
Tell  me  that  1  have  your  pardon  for  all  —  all .’ 

Her  answer  was  to  press  the  hand  she  held  against  her 
heart,  while  the  tears  slid  slowly  from  her  half-closed  eyelids. 
Mr.  Kingsbury  turned  away,  and  sat  down,  at  a  little  dis¬ 
tance,  hiding  his  face  in  his  handkerchief.  I  think  h e  felt 
then  ;  I  even  think  he  wept. 

Laura  lay  for  some  time  with  her  eyes  closed,  and  quite 
still ;  then  she  looked  up,  and  spoke  one  word  very  dis¬ 
tinctly  —  ‘  Philip.’ 

The  boy,  who  had  been  kneeling  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
"weeping  silently,  rose,  came  to  his  mother  s  side,  and  bent 
over  her,  sobbing  aloud.  She  wound  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him  many,  many  times,  but  said,  calmly, 

‘  Philip,  my  child,  my  dear,  dear  boy,  I  must  go  from  you ; 
God  calls  *  me,  and  I  must  go,  though  my  very  soul  seems 

cleft  in  twain  by  this  parting.’ 

‘  Oh,  mother,  mother !  ’  he  cried,  c  do  not  leave  me 
alone  !  I  cannot,  will  not  live  without  your  love  !  ’ 

<  My  dear  son,’  she  murmured,  ‘  we  may  not  be  altogether 
separated.  If  it  is  permitted,  I  will  come  to  you,  and  be 
often  with  you;  will  watch  over  you,  “even  to  the  end.” 
I  know,  my  son,  you  will  never  forget  your  mother  ;  but 
remember,  also,  your  Father  in  Heaven;  and  God  will  com¬ 
fort  you.’ 

Very  soon  after  speaking  these  words,  the  loving  heart  of 
the  mother  ceased  to  throb  —  the  broken  heart  of  the  wife 
was  at  rest. 

When  Philip  saw  that  she  was  indeed  gone,  he  sprang  up, 
with  all  the  quick  motion  and  wild  air  of  insanity.  Shriek 
after  shriek  broke  from  his  foamy  lips,  while  his  distended 
eyes  seemed  to  shoot  forth  live  flame  !  In  a  few  moments, 
he  was  secured,  and  borne  forcibly  to  his  distant  and  lonely 
apartment. 

The  next  night,  my  husband  and  I  both  went  to  Mr. 
Kingsbury’s  to  watch  with  the  body  of  our  beloved  friend. 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


15 


It  happened  that,  about  midnight,  the  doctor  was  called  to  a 
patient  who  was  extremely  ill;  and  I  was  left  alone  —  alone 
with  the  dead.  But  I  was  not  superstitious,  and  could  not 
be  afraid  of  dear  Laura,  you  know.  I  sat  down  by  the 
couch  on  which  lay  extended  her  slender,  symmetrical 
form — looking  so  strangely  tall,  then,  I  remember  —  and 
laying  back  the  thin  muslin  from  her  fair,  sweet  face,  gazed 
upon  it  long  and  mournfully.  I  thought  of  the  first  time  I 
saw  her,  and  how  she  blushed  and  smiled  when  we  were 
introduced.  I  recalled  the  very  words  she  first  spoke  to 
me,  and  even  remembered  just  how  she  was  dressed  then. 
I  thought  of  our  school  frolics  and  little  troubles ;  of  our 
one  brief  quarrel,  when  I  was  wholly  to  blame.  I  thought 
of  all,  all,  till  my  tears  fell  fast  on  that  still  face,  and  those 
cold,  clasped  hands. 

Suddenly,  I  was  roused  by  a  strange,  startling  sound,  at  a 
little  distance.  It  struck  a  chill  to  my  heart,  for  it  seemed 
the  rattle  of  a  chain !  Nearer  and  nearer  it  came,  up  the 
long  hall,  ringing  on  its  marble  floor,  then  paused  at  the 
door  of  Laura’s  room,  which  opened  quickly,  and  young 
Philip  entered.  He  was  pale  to  ghastliness ;  some  locks  of 
his  long,  black  hair  were  hanging  over  his  face ;  his  dress 
was  disordered,  and  from  about  one  of  his  ankles  hung  a 
small  iron  chain,  which,  it  seems,  he  had  wrenched  from  its 
staple,  in  the  floor  of  his  room.  These  were  the  means  by 
which  he  was  confined  when  more  than  usually  violent. 

Now,  I  saw  at  once,  by  the  expression  of  his  eye,  that 
he  was  perfectly  sane.  He  did  not  appear  to  notice  me, 
as  he  came  eagerly  toward  the  couch  where  his  mother 
was  wont  to  lie  —  where  she  was  now  laid.  When  he  saw 
the  still  attitude,  the  rigid  lips,  the  death  seal  on  the  brow, 
he  clasped  his  hands  together  and  groaned  aloud.  Then 
he  flung  himself  down  by  her  side,  wound  his  arms  about 
her,  laid  his  head  against  her  breast,  and  cried,  ‘  Oh,  mother, 
mother;  I  thought  it  was  a  dream  that  you  were  dead  !  ’ 

I  was  presently  relieved  beyond  expression  by  the  return 


16 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


of  my  husband  ;  and  we  two  finally  succeeded  in  calming 
the  keen  anguish  of  the  orphan  boy. 

After  the  funeral,  with  the  ready  acquiescence  of  Mr. 
Kingsbury,  we  took  Philip  home  with  us,  to  be  for  a  time 
as  one  of  our  own. 

Mr.  Kingsbury  was  not  appointed  the  guardian  of  Philip. 
Laura  left  in  my  care  a  long  letter,  commending  the  unfor¬ 
tunate  lad  to  the  affection  and  guardianship  of  the  only 
brother  of  his  father,  Dr.  Hamilton,  a  wealthy  old  bachelor, 
and  a  distinguished  physician  of  New  York. 

Within  a  fortnight  after  this  letter  was  forwarded,  Dr. 

Hamilton  arrived  in  P - ,  and  came  directly  to  our  house. 

We  were  all  charmed  with  him.  I  never  saw  a  more  benevo¬ 
lent  face  ;  and  his  manner  was  unequalled  for  courteous 
kindliness.  Philip,  though  naturally  reserved,  was  won  by 
it  at  once  ;  and  I  saw,  with  inexpressible  pleasure,  that  the 
good  man  seemed  disposed,  from  the  first,  to  take  his 
afflicted  ward  home  to  his  heart,  and  to  make  him  the  object 
of  all  his  love  and  care. 

Philip’s  property  was  found  to  be  in  a  sad  condition,  and 
many  weeks  were  spent  in  business  arrangements.  The 
Kingsburys  left  his  house,  which  was  let  to  a  good  tenant. 
The  furniture  was  sold,  principally  ;  but  those  articles  most 
sacred  from  dear  associations  were  confided  to  my  care. 
That  portrait  was"Philip’s  parting  gift  to  me.  He  had  an 
admirable  miniature  of  his  mother,  which  he  wore  next  his 
heart  always. 

During  this  time,  Philip  was  but  once  insane,  and  that 
for  only  a  few  hours.  How  different  was  his  treatment 
from  what  it  had  formerly  been.  He  was  now  watched 
over,  but  not  constrained  ;  his  poor  burning  head  was  con¬ 
stantly  bathed,  he  was  spoken  to  kindly,  and  ministered  to 
patiently,  and  no  one  testified  any  fear  of  him. 

It  was  with  real  sorrow  that  we  parted  from  the  dear  boy, 
at  last ;  yet  we  knew  that  it  was  best  he  should  go  from 
us. 


PHILIP  HAMILTON  AND  HIS  MOTHER. 


17 


In  the  course  of  a  month,  we  received  a  very  kind  letter 
from  Dr.  Hamilton.  He  was  about  to  sail  for  Europe,  with 
Philip,  where  they  might  spend  some  years,  for  the  pleas¬ 
ure,  instruction,  and  perfect  restoration  of  the  young  man. 

After  this,  Philip  wrote  to  us  occasionally  from  various 
parts  of  Europe.  His  letters  were  exceedingly  interesting, 
and  cheerful  in  tone  ;  but,  as  he  was  painfully  sensitive  in 
regard  to  his  peculiar  mental  disease,  we  could  learn  nothing 
in  particular  about  his  health,  though  he  always  said  he  was 
well.  Finally,  from  some  cause  or  other,  he  ceased  to 
write,  and  we  heard  no  more  from  him. 

As  many  as  seven  years  from  the  time  of  Laura’s  death, 
I  was  spending  some  weeks  of  the  winter  with  a  friend  in 
New  York.  One  night,  we  all  attended  one  of  the  upper-ten 
parties  —  an  immense  affair.  Early  in  the  evening,  I  heard 
many  comments  on  the  beauty  and  talent  of  a  young  English 
lady,  who  was  then  playing  for  us;  and,  with  some  difficulty, 
made  my  way  toward  the  piano,  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
performer.  She  was,  indeed,  lovely ;  with  a  fair,  mild 
face,  and  a  full,  yet  graceful  figure  —  a  true  little  English 
woman,  sweet  and  healthful.  But  I  did  not  observe  her 
closely  then,  for  my  attention  was  riveted  to  the  face  of  a 
gentleman  who  was  standing  at  her  side,  turning  the  leaves 
of  the  music  for  her.  I  thought  I  had  never  seen  so  noble, 
so  spiritually  beautiful  a  countenance.  It  was  the  face  of  a 
stranger,  surely ;  and  yet  there  was  something  familiar, 
something  dear,  something  which  stirred  my  heart,  in  it. 
Presently,  the  young  man  happened  to  look  round  and  meet 
my  eye.  He  started,  and  took  a  step  toward  me,  as  though 
he  would  speak;  then  hesitated,  as  I  did  not  advance,  and 
regained  his  place  by  the  piano.  I  turned ;  and,  passing 
through  room  after  room,  at  last  found  myself  alone  in  the 
cool  and  quiet  conservatory ;  and  here  I  sat  myself  to  the 
work  of  remembering  when  and  where  I  had  ever  met  that 
face.  But  in  vain ;  I  was  completely  bewildered.  Sud¬ 
s' 


18 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


denly,  I  heard  a  quick  step,  looked  round,  and  the  stranger 
was  at  my  side  ! 

4  Mrs.  Allen,  dear  Mrs.  Allen!’  he  said,  extending  his 
hand. 

I  took  it,  mechanically ;  looking  sadly  puzzled,  I  suppose. 

‘  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  recollect  me  ?  ’  he  said, 
with  a  sort  of  mournful  smile. 

Oh,  that  smile!  how  it  brought  her  back  —  poor  Laura! 
—  and  then  I  knew  her  son ! 

4  Philip  Hamilton  !  ’  I  cried  ;  4  my  dear  boy  !  ’  and,  forget- 
ting  that  he  had  grown  to  be  a  young  man,  a  tall  and  elegant 
young  man,  I  flung  my  arms  about  his  neck,  and  kissed 
him  repeatedly. 

Then  we  sat  down,  and  had  a  good  long  talk  by  ourselves. 
Philip  told  me  that,  on  his  complete  restoration  to  health,  he 
had  studied  medicine,  with  the  intention  of  devoting  himself 
exclusively  to  the  treatment  of  insanity  ;  that,  having  ac¬ 
quired  his  profession,  he  had  now  returned  to  his  native 
land  to  carry  out  this  philanthropic  purpose.  He  said  that 
he  had  married  in  England,  and  begged  leave  to  present 
his  young  wife,  whom,  he  said,  he  had  first  loved  for  her 
name,  which  was  Laura.  I  bowed  a  pleased  assent ;  and 
he  darted  off,  to  return  in  a  moment  with  the  charming 
pianist  leaning  on  his  arm. 

Mrs.  Hamilton  was  very  affectionate  in  her  greeting ; 
and,  among  other  pleasant  things  which  she  said,  told  me 

that  Philip  had  promised  her  a  visit  to  P -  early  in  the 

spring. 

4  Yes,’  added  Philip,  4  we  are  all  coming  then.  Uncle 
Richard  often  speaks  of  the  doctor,  and  still  oftener  of  the 
doctor’s  wife.’ 

4  Then  your  good  uncle  is  still  living,’  I  remarked. 

4  Yes ;  and  long  may  he  be  spared  to  us !  I  know  not 
how  we  could  live  without  the  dear  old  man  —  Heaven 
bless  him !  ’ 

And,  in  my  deep  heart,  I  responded  — 4  The  dear  old 
man  —  Heaven  bless  him  !  ’ 


THE  TWO  THOMPSONS. 


‘  God  made  the  country,  and  man  made  the  town.’ 


It  has  become  very  fashionable  of  late,  with  writers,  of  a 
certain  grade,  to  draw  invidious  comparisons  between  the 
city  and  country,  and  to  dwell  pathetically  upon  the  miseries 
and  mortifications  to  which  town-bred  people  are  subjected 
by  unsolicited  and  interminable  visitations  from  their  rural 
acquaintances. 

For  some  years  past,  the  patient  public  has  been  deluged 
with  dolorously  ludicrous  tales  and  sketches  on  these  same 
delightful  topics ;  they  have  a  strong  family  likeness,  and 
their  features  are  something  of  this  sort.  A  wealthy  and 
aristocratic  city  family,  elegant,  polite,  and  refined  to  the 
last  degree,  are,  some  fatal  morning,  surprised,  taken  by 
storm,  by  the  incursion  of  certain  low-bred,  illiterate, 
scheming,  drawling,  impertinent,  and  altogether  disgusting 
country  people,  in  bell-crowned  hats  and  steeple-crowned 
bonnets,  sheeps-gray  and  flaunting  calico,  flourishing  ban¬ 
dannas ;  telling  endless  stories  in  an  impossible  dialect; 
laughing  loud,  guessing  and  asking  questions ;  a  wild, 
predatory  race,  yet  in  primeval  ignorance  of  the  mysteries 
of  silver  forks,  napkins,  finger-glasses,  party  hours,  French 
cooking,  the  polka,  and  the  opera ;  a  bold  and  venturous 
people,  who,  with  eyes  yet  unsealed  to  behold  the  rude 
material  and  curious  cut  of  their  own  clothes,  or  the 
appalling  greenness  which  is  sprouting  out  of  every  crevice 


20 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


of  their  characters,  give  themselves  up  with  a  charming 
abandon  to  the  enjoyment  of  their  new  atmosphere  and 
surroundings,  undazzled  and  unoppressed  by  luxury  and 
state,  spread  themselves  extensively  on  damask  sofas,  and 
are  delightfully  at  home  on  embroidered  ottomans  and  in 
vel  vet  fauteuils. 

The  men,  who  are  invariably  coarse,  loud-voiced,  and 
rough-shod,  alarm  and  stun  the  courteous  master  ot  the 
house  with  long,  political  harangues,  rank  with  that  bar¬ 
room  democracy  which  takes  the  fact  of  an  American  being 
a  gentleman  as  a  proof  of  his  being  bribed  with  ‘  Biitish 
gold,’  and  looks  upon  a  display  of  clean  linen  as  the  sure 
insignia  of  aristocracy.  The  women,  familiar  and  exacting, 
drag  their  amiable  hostess,  a  sweet,  uncomplaining  martyr 
to  her  politeness,  all  over  town,  on  endless  shopping  expedi¬ 
tions  ;  or  go  forth  slyly,  by  themselves,  and  come  back, 
heated  and  noisy,  to  dinner,  with  numberless  ‘  great  bar¬ 
gains,’  cheap  shawls,  hose,  and  ‘  handkefchers ,  in  biown 

paper  parcels,  under  their  arms. 

‘  After  many  days,’  or  weeks  it  may  be,  during  which  all 
imaginable  vexations,  mortifications,  and  impertinences, 
have  been  endured  by  their  entertainers,  with  unfailing 
politeness  and  exemplary  fortitude,  the  terrible  visitors  take 
their  departure,  selfish,  envious,  unsatisfied,  and  ungrateful 
to  the  last. 

I  think  I  have  given  a  pretty  fair  synopsis  of  the  matter 
of  the  class  of  tales  to  which  I  referred  ;  the  manner  of 
relation  is,  of  course,  somewhat  varied,  yet  never  rises  to 
absolute  Miltonic  sublimity,  or  becomes  too  exquisitely  witty 
to  be  endured,  even  by  persons  of  delicate  nerves. 

Now,  all  this  is  unnatural,  ungenerous,  pretentious,  and 
essentially  vulgar.  It  is  insulting  to  the  true  character  of 
our  country  people,  and  should  be  at  once  resented  by  them, 
were  it  not  so  weak  and  ridiculous,  as  the  expression  of  a 
small  kind  of  aristocracy,  and  as  the  vehicle  of  the  stalest 
and  cheapest  sort  of  wit  and  humor. 


THE  TWO  THOMPSONS. 


21 


In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  true  that  country  people  are  in 
the  habit  of  making  long,  unsolicited  visits  to  the  city. 
Again,  it  is  not  true  that,  when  with  their  fashionable  friends, 
they  are  free  and  easy,  presuming,  and  impertinent ;  not 
true  that  they  are  insensible  to  their  own  peculiarities,  or 
blind  to  the  annoyance  they  sometimes  occasion,  slow  to 
take  hints,  meddlesome,  exacting,  or  ungrateful  for  kindly 
attention.  On  the  other  hand,  they  are  often  too  much 
averse  to  appearing  in  the  society  of  cities,  and  too  jealously 
alive  to  the  fear  of  seeming  presuming  and  intrusive. 
When  thrown  for  a  time  in  those  polished  circles,  they 
seldom  thrust  themselves  forward,  but  are,  in  general,  too 
silent  and  humble,  and  awkwardly  respectful.  They  have 
often  so  ready  an  apprehension,  and  so  native  a  delicacy,  as 
to  prove  the  least  troublesome  of  accidental  acquaintances 
for  people  of  fashion.  They  have  such  a  quick  pride,  such 
a  live  sensibility,  you  may  put  them  down  with  a  wave  of 
the  hand,  shake  them  off  with  a  toss  of  the  head,  and  cut 
them  up  root  and  branch  with  a  cold  word  or  an  insolent 
laugh. 

It  is  true  that  the  country  cousin  flushes  too  deeply  and 
moves  too  constrainedly  in  the  gas-lit  drawing-room,  thinks 
morbidly  on  the  last  year’s  fashion  of  her  dress,  and  is 
never  quite  oblivious  of  her  freckles  and  faded  ribbons  ; 
and  the  young  farmer  there  stammers  awkwardly,  and  walks 
or  sits  with  a  new  and  painful  consciousness  of  hands  and 
feet.  But  place  the  girl  at  home,  and  as  she  goes  about  her 
simple  daily  avocations,  you  have  a  happy,  natural,  graceful 
creature,  most  lovable  and  womanly  ;  and  the  farmer  is  a 
true  type  of  hearty  and  dignified  manhood,  when,  Mac¬ 
Gregor-like,  4  his  foot  is  on  his  native  heath.’ 

Has  it  not  often  occurred  to  you,  my  dear  reader,  that  the 
picture,  so  often  re-touched  and  placed  in  a  new  light,  might 
possibly  have  another  side  than  the  one  always  presented  by 
the  generous  and  facetious  writers  to  whom  we  have  referred 
above  ?  Let  us  turn  it  out. 


22 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Soon  as  the  dull  and  dusty  summer  months  come  round, 
town  people  are  suddenly  visited  by  ‘  dreams  of  all  things 
green ’  —  intimations  of  a  previous  existence,  it  maybe  — 
propensities  nomadic  and  Nebuchadnezzaran  for  a  pastoral, 
or,  rather,  pastural  life,  and  pour  out  into  the  country  in 
squads  of  sporting  men,  companies  of  pale  women,  and 
battalions  of  infantry.  These  are  received  by  families  of 
farmers,  often  mere  acquaintances,  with  an  open-hearted  and 
open-handed  hospitality — a  hospitality  which  has  some 
meaning  and  some  merit ;  for,  in  the  country,  where  people 
are  frequently  obliged  to  be  their  own  domestics,  and  where 
there  are  neither  lions  nor  markets,  visits  from  city  friends 
necessarily  occasion  a  great  amount  of  care  and  labor. 
Here  the  entertainers  give  up  all  their  time  and  thoughts, 
with  cheerful  devotion,  to  their  guests.  Every  day  brings 
some  new  plan  for  their  good,  or  pleasure,  and  sees  it  car¬ 
ried  out.  Every  thing  possible  is  done  to  make  them  feel 
contented  and  comfortable ;  in  short,  at  home.  They  are 
urged  to  prolong  their  stay  from  time  to  time  ;  and  when, 
at  last,  they  are  really  off,  are  accompanied  to  the  coach- 
door  with  sorrowful  farewells!  waved  to  from  the  porch; 
and  spoken  of  kindly,  even  though  they  leave  disordered 
apartments,  trampled  grass-plots,  broken  carriage-wheels, 
and  used-up  saddle  horses,  behind  them. 

In  return  for  all  this,  the  farmer  and  his  family  are 
fortunate,  if,  when  they  are  in  town  for  a  day  or  two,  they 
are  courteously  received  by  their  summer  friends,  and 
treated  respectfully  by  the  servants  of  the  house,  and  not 
met  with  careless  indifference,  or  stately  politeness,  which 
is  worse  ;  or  patronizing  condescension,  which  is  more 
insufferable  than  all. 

Hospitality  is  a  rural  virtue,  and,  in  its  perfection,  as 
rarely  found  in  cities  as  clover  tufts  growing  among  flag¬ 
stones;  yet,  when  found,  all  the  more  refreshing  and  beau¬ 
tiful  a  sight. 

That  the  writer,  in  her  own  person,  with  so  many  of  the 


THE  TWO  THOMPSONS. 


23 


careless,  uncourtly  ways,  with  so  much  of  the  atmosphere 
of  rural  life  about  her,  has  yet  been  so  generously  dealt 
with  by  her  friends  of  the  town,  she  assigns  to  her  peculiar 
good  fortune  in  having  fallen  in  with  a  class  of  people  who 
might  well  redeem  any  metropolitan  society  from  indis¬ 
criminate  reproach  :  men  and  women  of  sense  and  heart, 
who,  looking  through  dress  and  manner,  were  pleased  to 
recognise  an  earnest  and  independent  spirit.  For  these, 
and  such  as  these,  she  has  only  admiration  and  grateful 
feeling ;  yet  for  their  good  she  surely  is  not  penning  this 
present  article. 

4  Lizzie,  who  were  those  stylish  young  ladies  in  old  Mr. 
White’s  pew,  to-day?’  asked  Julian  Fielding  of  his  sister 
on  their  way  from  church  one  Sunday  afternoon  in  August. 

4  Why,  they  are  his  grand-daughters,  the  two  Thompsons, 
from  New  York.  They  are  on  here  for  the  summer,  to 
rusticate.  It  is  said  that  one  of  them  was  in  love,  44  not 
wisely,”  and  an  absence  from  the  city  was  rather  peremp¬ 
torily  prescribed  by  the  father,  who,  you  know,  is  a  rich 
Wall  street  broker.’ 

4  Have  you  called  on  them,  sister  ?  ’ 

4  No,  not  yet ;  I  waited  for  you  to  come  home,  and  go 
with  me.  They  are  so  elegant  and  fashionable,  I  am  half 
afraid.  But  we  will  make  the  call  to-morrow,  if  you  say 
so;  for  scarcely  any  one  has  been  to  see  them,  and  I  am 
sure  they  must  be  very  lonely  at  that  dull,  old  place  of  the 
Whites.’ 

4  Agreed.  I  like  their  appearance,  decidedly.  One  of 
them  is  rather  pretty.’ 

4  Oh,  very ,  I  think,  Julian,’  exclaimed  Lizzie,  with  gener¬ 
ous  enthusiasm. 

The  speakers,  in  the  above  dialogue,  were  the  only  son 
and  daughter  of  the  Episcopal  clergyman  of  a  small,  retired 
village,  in  the  southern  part  of  New  York.  Julian  Fielding, 
a  young  gentleman  of  twenty-one,  just  out  of  college,  was 


24 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


gay-tempered,  spirited,  and  rather  handsome ;  with  con¬ 
siderable  natural  cleverness,  but  little  knowledge  of  the 
world.  Still,  he  could  not  be  pronounced  a  verdant  young 
man  ;  for,  with  him,  native  wit  and  tact  well  supplied  the 
place  of  experiences.  He  was  carelessly  rather  than  cour¬ 
ageously  original,  and  deservedly  a  general  favorite.  Lizzie 
Fielding,  two  years  younger,  was  just  such  a  girl  as  a  young 
gentleman  loves  to  point  out  as  his  sister.  She  was  a  very 
pretty,  a  very  charming  creature,  truly  beautiful  in  face, 
graceful  in  figure,  tasteful  in  dress,  and  modest  and  un¬ 
affected  in  manner.  She  was  a  very  embodiment  of 
affectionateness  and  devotion  ;  somewhat  too  romantic  and 
sensitive,  perhaps,  and  given  to  great  bursts  of  sorrow  on 
small  occasions  ;  yet,  merry  as  a  dancing  fairy  between 
whiles. 

A  beautiful  love  and  a  perfect  confidence  existed  between 
this  brother  and  sister  from  their  earliest  childhood. 

The  important  call  on  the  two  Thompsons  was  made  — 
speedily  returned  —  and  thus  began  an  acquaintance  which 
rapidly  deepened  into  intimacy  ;  an  intimacy  of  the  closest 
and  most  confidential  kind,  on  the  part  of  the  young  ladies. 
The  sisters  were  not  very  pleasantly  situated  in  the  sober, 
methodical  household  of  their  grand-parents,  and  soon 
became  almost  domesticated  at  the  cheerful  home  of  the 
Fieldings.  They  appeared  quite  unlike  city  belles ;  wore 
gipsy  hats,  with  myrtle  wreaths  ;  hunted  wild  flowers,  went 
trouting,  made  hay,  1  loved  pigs  and  chickens,’  had  slight 
fear  of  cows,  drank  new  milk  —  in  short,  were  delightfully 
rural  and  simple  in  their  ways,  and  altogether  enchanting  to 
honest  country  people. 

It  is  true,  Julian  Fielding  did  give  some  hints  of  a  most 
ungenerous  opinion,  that  all  this  was  a  little  too  strong,  too 
decided,  to  be  quite  natural  ;  and  even  went  so  far,  once,  as 
to  mutter  something  about  ‘  affectation,’  ‘  humbug,’  but  Lizzie 
defended  her  new  friends  so  warmly  and  stoutly,  that  he  was 
obliged  to  give  over. 


THE  TWO  THOMPSONS. 


25 

Miss  Helen  Thompson,  the  beauty,  proved  to  be  passion¬ 
ately  fond  of  riding ;  so  Lizzie’s  nice  little  palfrey  was 
promptly  placed  at  her  service,  and  accepted  with  sun- 
bright  smiles,  and  a  regular  summer  shower  of  kisses. 
And  Lizzie’s  handsome  brother,  who  could  desire  a  more 
gallant  cavalier  ? 

So  it  went.  Such  long,  delicious,  summer  evening  rides, 
through  the  green  lanes  and  woody  glens,  and  over  the  hills 

of  A - ,  with  fragrant  airs,  and  singing  waters,  and 

gushes  of  bird  music,  and  waving  shadows,  and  gleams  of 
softened  sunlight  around  them,  and  4  nobody  very  near.’ 
What  wonder  if  a  pleasant  little  flirtation  sprang  up  spon¬ 
taneously  between  these  two,  under  the  favor  of  circum¬ 
stances,  the  abetting  influences  of  idleness  and  romance, 
and  the  passionate  and  poetical  lead  of  the  season,  and  with 
old  Dame  Nature  looking  on,  with  a  quiet,  complacent  smile, 
as  much  as  to  say,  ‘Well,  well ;  I  was  young  once,  myself.’ 

By  the  way,  with  how  much  indulgence  have  lovers  ever 
been  regarded  in  her  fair  domain  !  Flow  tenderly  the  light 
shadows  shelter  their  path  !  The  frolic  winds  are  no 
gossipy  retailers  of  their  soft  sayings.  The  flowers  smile 
to  each  other  in  the  moonlight,  and  nod  their  heads  in  an 
ecstasy  of  sympathetic  delight.  And  even  the  solemn  and 
far-away  stars  wink  at  the  youthful  folly  of  melting  glances, 
low  sighs,  clasped  hands,  and  kisses. 

But  all  this  is  scarcely  apropos  to  my  present  hero  and 
heroine.  It  is  true,  that,  by  the  second  week  of  their 
acquaintance,  they  recited  impassioned  poetry,  and  sung 
among  the  solitudes,  as  they  rode,  or  strolled  slowly;  and 
by  the  next  week,  conversed  fondly  and  fluently  in  the 
language  of  flowers  ;  and  in  the  next,  and  all  following, 
pretly  decided  love,  as  love  goq^  now-a-days,  was  talked, 
looked,  and  sighed  —  et  viola  tout.  In  short,  and  in  truth, 
it  was  a  flirtation  —  nothing  more  ;  with  the  youth,  an 
agreeable  experiment ;  with  the  belle,  practice  to  keep  her 
hand  in. 


3 


26 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


In  all  this  time,  Miss  Louisa,  4  the  other  one,’  was  not 
forgotten,  nor  neglected.  She  cultivated  an  enthusiasm  for 
the  sublime  and  beautiful,  and  patronized  nature  to  a  degree 
quite  rare  and  praiseworthy  for  a  lady  of  her  condition.  In 
other  words,  she  sketched  incessantly ;  and  Julian  was 
always  on  hand  in  the  morning  to  escort  her  on  her  aitistic 
excursions,  and  to  show  up  all  the  fine  points  in  the  sceneiy 
about  A - . 

Thus  two  months  went  by,  and  then  —  oh  !  that  dark, 
mournful  day  —  that  dreadful,  sorrowful,  tearful  parting! 
For  a  long  time,  even  after  the  coach  was  at  the  door,  poor 
Lizzie  clung  to  her  beloved  friends,  and  would  not  let  them 
go.  Dear  girls,  how  tenderly  they  strove  to  comfort  her 
with  promises  of  a  longer  visit  the  succeeding  year,  and 
with  glowing  pictures  of  the  pleasures  they  would  have  in 
store  for  their  ‘  darling,’  on  her  visit  to  the  city.  And 
Julian  —  with  what  impressiveness  were  their  farewells 
spoken  to  him  —  and  how  long  did  they  look  back  and  wave 
to  him,  as  he  stood  leaning  on  the  gate,  gazing  down  the 
road. 

All  was  over  —  they  were,  indeed,  gone;  and  mirth  and 
music,  the  sound  of  light  feet  and  lighter  laughter,  had  died 
out  of  the  house  ;  the  flush  and  smile  of  beauty,  the  gleam 
of  white  muslin,  the  flutter  of  silken  scarfs,  the  musical 
rattle,  the  melodious  dissonance  of  eager  girlish  voices,  all 
passed  away  ;  and  in  their  stead,  silent,  and  darkened,  and 
lonely  places  every  where.  The  day  was  wearisome,  the 
evening  intolerable,  and  Lizzie  went  to  bed  with  a  headache, 
to  cry  herself  to  sleep.  On  descending  from  her  chamber 
in  the  morning,  she  was  surprised  and  shocked  to  find  Julian 
busily  engaged  in  preparing  his  rods  for  a  day’s  trouting, 
and  actually  whistling  at  his  work. 

A  correspondence  was  kept  up  between  the  friends,  rather 
a  one-sided  affair,  it  must  be  confessed,  as  Lizzie,  who,  like 
a  heroine  of  old  romance,  had  marvellous  epistolary  gifts, 
usually  filled  a  generous  sheet  with  wit  and  sentiment,  but 


THE  TWO  THOMPSONS. 


27 


seldom  received  more  in  return  than  the  most  fairy-like 
missives,  on  perfumed  note  paper,  beginning  with  ‘  Dearest,’ 
or  ‘  Sweetest,’  or  ‘  Darling  Lizzie,’  and  closing  with  4  in  the 
greatest  imaginable  haste,’  or  ‘  in  a  monstrous  hurry  — 
just  off  for  the  opera — carriage  at  the  door  —  ever  and 
ever'yours,’  &c. 

It  happened  that  the  winter  succeeding  the  memorable 

visit  of  the  two  Thompsons  to  A - ,  a  near  relative  of  the 

Fieldings,  a  distinguished  senator,  being  with  his  family  at 
Washington,  sent  a  most  cordial  and  pressing  invitation  to 
Julian  and  Lizzie  to  spend  some  time  with  them  at  the 
capital.  When  they  had  concluded  to  accept  this  invitation, 
Lizzie  was  about  to  write  all  about  it  to  her  friends,  the  two 
Thompsons;  but  her  brother,  the  mysterious  fellow,  begged 
that  she  would  not  do  so,  and  she  complied  with  his  request, 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

Lizzie’s  outfit  was  such  as  became  the  daughter  of  a 
country  clergyman  ;  neat  and  ample,  but  far  enough  from 
rich  and  stylish.  Yet  she  was  little  troubled  by  these  things. 
Her  affectionate  heart  was  bounding  in  joyful  anticipation 
of  so  soon  meeting  her  kind  relatives,  and  no  less  at  the 
thought  of  seeing  again  her  charming  friends  of  the  last 
summer,  as  she  passed  through  the  city,  on  her  way  South. 

‘  Ah,  what  a  glad  surprise  it  will  be  to  them  —  only  to  think 
of  it !  ’ 


It  was  a  bright  though  frosty  winter  morning,  when  Julian 

Fielding  handed  his  sister  out  of  a  cab,  in  front  of  - 

Hotel,  on  Broadway.  Just  at  that  moment,  a  gay  group  of 
ladies,  escorted  by  two  or  three  moustached  officers,  were 
strolling  down  the  sunny  pave  ;  and  first  among  the  party, 
gorgeous,  and  imposing  in  rich  cashmeres,  velvets,  furs,  and 
long,  floating  plumes,  were  the  two  Thompsons!  Lizzie 
started  impetuously  forward,  but  her  brother  drew  her  back  ; 
not,  however,  before  she  had  met  the  eyes  of  the  dashing 
young  ladies.  Avoiding,  with  a  cool  and  practised  assur- 


r 


28  GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 

ance,  her  eager  gaze,  and  glancing  over  her  travelling- 
dress,  both  passed  majestically  on,  without  a  word  or  look 
of  recognition. 

As  they  ascended  the  steps  of  the  hotel,  Mr.  Fielding 
was  ungallant  enough  to  pronounce  the  sisters  4  a  couple 
of  insolent  little  upstarts  ;  ’  but  Lizzie,  true  to  her  own  con¬ 
fiding  nature,  exclaimed,  4 1  don’t  believe  they  knew  us! 
You,  brother,  are  so  changed  by  your  whiskers,  and  I  by 
my  winter  dress.  And,  then,  they  are  quite  near-sighted. 
You  remember,  they  both  carried  glasses.’ 

4  Some  city  people  are  often  near-sighted  when  they  meet 
country  acquaintances.  But,  no  matter.’ 

Julian  found  it  impossible  to  infuse  a  large  share  of  his 
own  suspicions  into  the  gentle  mind  of  his  sister,  who  yet 
insisted  on  sending  her  card  to  her  4  dear  old  friends.’ 

The  next  day,  about  noon,  they  came,  the  two  Thomp¬ 
sons,  with  much  4  pomp  and  circumstance;’  a  stylish 
carriage,  blood-horses,  coachman  and  footman  in  livery, 
and  all  that.  Our  unsophisticated,  republican  Lizzie  was, 
however,  little  awed  by  the  state,  though  deeply  grieved  by 
the  changed  manner  of  her  visitors.  They  met  her  with 
most  fashionable  indifference,  merely  extending  to  her  the 
tips  of  their  gloved  fingers,  when  she  would  have  folded 
them  to  her  warm,  honest  heart,  throbbing  with  alternate 
hope  and  fear,  but  most  of  all,  with  love. 

Lizzie  grew  faint,  then  proud,  and  then  indignant,  and 
remained  almost  silent,  while  her  friends  rattled  on,  she 
knew  not  what,  of  up-town  gossip.  She  was  inexpressibly 
relieved  when  she  heard  her  brother’s  step  at  the  door. 
Miss  Louisa,  who  happened  to  be  standing,  curtsied  at  his 
entrance,  and  Miss  Helen,  who  was  seated,  nodded  her 
head,  and  showed  her  immaculate  teeth  in  a  patronizing 
smile,  but  did  not  proffer  her  hand.  Julian’s  lip  curled 
'  slightly,  as  he  remembered  how  often  he  had  been  allowed 
to  hold  that  hand  in  his,  and  even  to  raise  it  to  his  lips,  in 
the  season  of  the  summer  flirtation. 


THE  TWO  THOMPSONS. 


29 


‘  Oh,  Mr.  Fielding,’  lisped  the  beauty,  ‘  how  good  of  you 
to  bring  our  darling  Lizzie  to  our  noisy  city,  even  for  a  day 
or  two.  But  you  cannot  conceive  how  much  we  are  grieved 
at  not  being  able  to  take  her  home  with  us,  at  once.  The 
truth  is,  we  are  just  off  for  Washington,  where  papa  is  to 
take  us  to  spend  the  remainder  of  the  season.’ 

Lizzie  was  about  to  remark  that  this  was"  also  their  own 
destination  ;  but  she  caught  her  brother’s  eye,  and  was 
silent. 

About  three  weeks  from  this  meeting  and  parting,  the 
two  Thompsons  found  themselves,  for  the  first  time,  in  the 
gallery  of  the  Senate,  at  Washington.  They  had  arrived  at 
the  capital  a  day  or  two  before. 

Suddenly,  Miss  Louisa  whispered  to  her  sister,  and 
directed  her  gaze  to  where,  a  little  distance  off,  was  sitting 
in  the  midst  of  a  most  distingue  group,  by  the  side  of  the 

elegant  wife  of  Senator - ,  no  other  than  our  Lizzie, 

listening  intently  to  an  eloquent  speech  from  the  distin¬ 
guished  statesman  himself. 

After  this,  as  the  reader  may  apprehend,  the  poor  girl 
was  absolutely  overwhelmed  by  the  visits  and  heartless 
attentions  of  her  ‘  affectionate  friends,’  as  her  cousins  called 
them  ;  and  even  the  obdurate  Julian  was  often  playfully 
reminded  of  4  our  old  friendship,’  and  4  those  sweet  rides,’ 
and  4  that  wicked  flirtation  with  sister.’ 

Strange  to  say,  the  two  Thompsons  being  only  rich ,  did 
not  possess  the  entree  into  the  best  society  of  the  capital, 
where  their  little  friend  was  already  quite  as  much  of  a 
belle  as  her  gentle,  retiring  nature  would  admit. 

One  morning,  toward  the  last  of  the  season,  Lizzie  re¬ 
ceived  the  following  note  from  the  sisters  :  — 

4  Lizzie,  Darling  :  Will  you  and  your  heaufrere  come 
to  us  to-night?  We  are  to  have  a  little  soiree  —  a  very 
select  affair.  Ah !  chcre  amie ,  you  really  must  come.  It 
would  be  too  stupid  without  you.  We  could  not  survive  a 

3* 


30 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


refusal.  Your  charming  cousins  will  receive  more  formal 
notes. 

4  Your  sisters ,  Nell  and  Lou.1 

Lizzie’s  reply  ran  thus  : 

4  My  dear  Friends  :  We  regret  to  say  that  it  is  out  of 
our  power  to  accept  your  kind  invitation  to  your  soiree , 
which,  I  know,  will  be  very  delightful,  as  we  are  44  due,”  as 
brother  says,  at  the  Russian  Minister’s  to-night. 

4  Yours,  E.  Fielding.’ 

The  two  Thompsons  held  their  soiree ;  and  a  sorry  affair 
it  proved,  as  all  the  world  was  at  M.  Bodisco’s.  Alas  !  dear 
girls,  they  had  not  even  been  apprised  that  Madame 
V  Emb ass adr ice  received  on  that  evening. 

Thus  were  these  amiable  young  ladies  taught  a  whole¬ 
some,  though  painful  moral  lesson,  which,  I  am  happy  to 
say,  they  have  laid  to  heart.  They  are  now  careful  never 
to  indulge  themselves  in  cutting  rural  acquaintances,  before 
they  have  inquired  into  their  true  position  and  family  con¬ 
nections. 

It  is  rumored  that  Lizzie  Fielding  will  spend  yet  other 
sessions  at  Washington,  where  she  once  shone  a  4  bright, 
particular  star,’  but  that  the  next  time  she  will  appear  as  the 
bride  of  an  honorable  member  from  her  native  State,  a 
distinguished  lawyer,  with  whom  her  brother  Julian  is  study¬ 
ing  his  profession.  This  summer  she  will  spend  at  her 

beloved  home,  the  pleasant  parsonage  of  A - ;  but  I  do 

not  think  that  she  will  there  have  the  honor  of  entertaining 
ner  4  dear  old  friends,’  the  two  Thompsons. 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


1  he  villagers  of  N - well  remember  the  sad  morn¬ 

ing  when  the  bell  tolled  for  the  death  of  Emma,  the  once 
beautiful,  lovely,  and  beloved  wife  of  Judge  Allston.  Many 
a  face  was  shadowed,  many  a  heart  was  in  mourning  on  that 
day  ;  for  she  who  had  gone  so  early  to  her  rest,  had  en¬ 
deared  herself  to  many  by  her  goodness,  gentleness,  and  the 
beauty  of  her  blameless  life.  She  had  been  declining  for  a 
long  time,  and  yet  she  seemed  to  have  died  suddenly  at  last, 
so  difficult,  so  almost  impossible  it  was  for  those  who  loved 
her  to  prepare  their  hearts  for  that  fearful  bereavement,  that 
immeasurable  loss. 

Mrs.  Allston  left  four  children  —  Isabel,  the  eldest,  an 
intellectual,  generous-hearted  girl  of  seventeen,  not  beauti¬ 
ful,  but  thoroughly  noble-looking ;  Frank,  a  fine  boy  of 
twelve  ;  Emma,  4  the  beauty,’  a  child  of  seven  ;  and  Eddie, 
the  baby,  a  delicate  infant,  only  about  a  year  old. 

Judge  Allston  was  a  man  of  naturally  strong  and  quick 
feelings,  but  one  who  had  acquired  a  remarkable  control 
over  expression,  a  calmness  and  reserve  of  manner  often 
mistaken  for  hauteur  and  insensibility.  He  was  alone  with 
his  wife  when  she  died.  Isabel,  wearied  with  long;  watching;, 
had  lain  down  for  a  little  rest,  and  was  sleeping  with  the 
children  —  and  the  mother,  even  in  that  hour,  tenderly 
caring  for  them,  would  not  that  they  should  be  waked.  The 
last  struggle  was  brief  but  terrible  ;  the  spirit  seemed  torn 


32 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


painfully  from  its  human  tenement  —  the  immortal  rent  its 
way  forth  from  imprisoning  mortality.  Yet  he,  the  husband 
and  lover,  preserved  his  calmness  through  all  ;  and  when 
the  last  painful  breath  had  been  panted  out  on  the  still  aii  of 
midnight,  he  laid  the  dear  head  he  had  been  supporting 
against  his  breast,  gently  down  on  the  pillow  kissed  the 
cold,  damp  forehead  and  still  lips  of  the  love  of  his  youth, 
and  then  summoning  an  attendant,  turned  away  and  sought 
his  room,  where  alone,  and  in  darkness,  he  wrestled  with 
the  angel  of  sorrow  —  wept  the  swift  tears  of  his  anguish, 
and  lacerated  his  heart  with  all  the  vain  regrets  and  wild 
reproaches  of  bereaved  affection.  Hut  with  the  coming  of 
morning,  came  serenity  and  resignation  ;  and  then  he  led 
his  children  into  the  silent  chamber  where  lay  their  mother, 
already  clad  in  the  garments  of  the  grave.  Then  too  he 
was  calm  —  holding  the  fainting  Isabel  in  his  arms,  and 
gently  hushing  the  passionate  outcries  of  Emma  and  Frank. 
He  was  never  seen  to  weep  until  the  first  earth  fell  upon  the 
coffin,  and  then  he  covered  up  his  lace  and  sobbed  aloud. 

Mrs.  Allston  was  not  laid  in  the  village  churchyard,  but 
was  buried,  at  her  own  request,  within  an  arbor,  at  the  end 
of  the  garden.  She  said  it  would  not  seem  that  she  was 
thrust  out  from  her  home,  if  the  light  from  her  own  window 
shone  out  toward  her  grave ;  and  that  she  half  believed  the 
beloved  voice  of  her  husband,  and  the  singing  of  her  daugh¬ 
ter,  and  the  laughter  of  her  children  would  come  to  her, 
where  she  lay,  with  her  favorite  flowers,  about  her,  and  the 
birds  she  had  fed  and  protected  building  their  nests  above 
her  in  the  vines. 

When  the  stunning  weight  of  sorrow,  its  first  distraction 
and  desolation  had  been  taken  from  the  life  and  spirit  of 
Isabel  Allston,  one  clear  and  noble  purpose  took  complete 
possession  of  her  mind.  She  would  fill  the  dear  place  of 
her  mother  in  the  household  —  she  would  console  and  care 
for  her  poor  father  —  she  would  love  yet  more  tenderly  her 
young  brother  and  sister,  and  bind  up  their  bruised  hearts, 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


33 


so  early  crushed  by  affliction  —  she  would  be  a  mother  to 
the  babe,  who  had  almost  felt  the  bosom  which  had  been  its 
first  resting-place,  grow  cold  against  its  little  cheek,  and 
hard  and  insensible  to  its  c  waxen  touches ;  ’  now  that  the 
voice  which  had  hushed  it  to  its  first  slumbers  had  sunk  low, 
faltered  and  grown  still  forever,  and  the  kind  eyes  which 
first  shone  over  its  awaking  —  the  stars  of  love’s  heaven  — 
had  suddenly  darkened  and  gone  out  in  death. 

After  this,  it  was,  indeed,  beautiful  to  see  Isabel  in  her 
home.  There  she  seemed  to  live  many  lives  in  one.  She 
superintended  all  domestic  affairs  and  household  arrange¬ 
ments  with  admirable  courage  and  judgment.  Her  father 
never  missed  any  of  his  accustomed  comforts,  and  her 
brother  and  sister  were  as  ever  neatly  dressed,  and  well 
taught  and  controlled.  But  on  the  baby  she  lavished  most 
of  her  attention  and  loving  care.  She  took  him  to  her  own 
bed  —  she  dressed  and  bathed,  and  fed  him,  and  carried 
him  with  her  in  all  her  walks  and  rides.  And  she  was  soon 
richly  rewarded  by  seeing  little  Eddie  become  from  an 
exceedingly  small,  fragile  infant,  a  well-sized,  blooming  boy, 
not  stout  or  remarkably  vigorous  indeed,  but  quite  health¬ 
ful  and  active.  The  child  was  passionately  fond  of  his 
‘  mamma,’  as  he  was  taught  to  call  Isabel.  Though  rather 
imperious  and  rebellious  toward  others,  he  yielded  to  a  word 
from  her,  at  any  time.  At  evening,  she  could  summon  him 
from  the  wildest  play,  to  prepare  him  for  his  bath  and  bed, 
and  afterward  he  would  twine  his  little  arms  about  her  neck, 
and  cover  her  cheeks,  lips,  and  forehead,  with  his  good-night 
kisses,  then  droop  his  sunny  head  on  her  shoulder,  and  fall 
asleep,  often  with  one  of  her  glossy  ringlets  twined  about 
his  small,  rosy  fingers.  At  the  very  break  of  day,  the  little 
fellow  would  be  awake  —  striding  over  poor  Isabel,  as  she 
vainly  strove  for  another  brief,  delicious  doze  —  pulling  at 
her  long,  black  eyelashes,  and  peeping  under  the  drowsy 
lids,  or  shouting  into  her  half-dreaming  ear  his  vociferous 
‘  Good  morning  !  ’ 


34 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


And  Frank  and  Emma  found  ever  in  their  sister-mother 
ready  sympathy,  patient  sweetness,  and  the  most  affectionate 
counsel.  They  were  never  left  to  feel  the  crushing  neglect, 
the  loneliness  and  desolation  of  orphanage  ;  and  they  were 
happy  and  affectionate  in  return  for  all  dear  Isabel’s  good¬ 
ness  and  faithfulness.  \  et  were  they  never  taught  to  forget 
their  mother,  gone  from  them  —  neither  to  speak  of  her  al¬ 
ways  with  sorrow  and  solemnity.  Her  name  was  often  on 
their  young  lips,  and  her  memory  kept  green  and  glowing 
in  their  tender  hearts.  Her  grave,  in  the  garden  arbor  — 
what  a  dear,  familiar  place  !  There  sprang  the  first  blue 
violets  of  spring  —  there  bloomed  the  last  pale  chrysanthe¬ 
mums  of  autumn  —  there  sweet  Sabbath  hymns  and  prayers 
were  repeated  by  childish  voices,  which  struggled  up  through 
tears  —  there,  morning  after  morning,  were  reverently  laid 
bright,  fragrant  wreaths,  which  kept  quite  fresh  till  far  into 
the  hot  summer-day,  on  that  shaded  mound  —  and  there, 
innumerable  times*,  was  the  beloved  name  kissed  in  sorrow¬ 
ful  emotion,  by  those  warm  lips,  which  half  shrank  as  they 
touched  the  cold  marble,  so  like  her  lips  when  they  had  last 
kissed  them. 

Thus  passed  two  years  over  that  bereaved  family  — -  over 
Judge  Allston,  grown  a  cheerful  man,  though  one  still 
marked  by  great  reserve  of  manner  —  over  his  noble  daugh¬ 
ter,  Isabel,  happy  in  the  perfect  performance  of  her  whole 
duty  —  and  over  the  children,  the  good  and  beautiful  chil¬ 
dren,  whom  an  angel-mother  might  have  smiled  upon  from 
heaven. 

It  happened  that  this  third  summer  of  his  widowhood, 
Judge  Allston  spent  more  time  than  ever  before  at  the  city 

of  s - 9  the  county-seat,  and  the  place  where  lay  most 

of  his  professional  duties.  But  it  was  rumored  that  there 
was  an  unusual  attraction  in  that  town  —  one  apart  from,  and 
quite  independent  of,  the  claims  of  business  and  the  pursuits 
of  ambition.  It  was  said  that  the  thoughtful  and  dignified 
judge  had  sometimes  been  seen  walking  and  riding  with  a 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


35 


certain  tall  and  slender  woman,  in  deep  mourning,  probably 
a  widow,  but  still  young  and  beautiful. 

At  length,  an  officious  family  friend  came  to  Isabel,  and 
informed  her,  without  much  delicacy  or  circumlocution,  of 
the  prevalent  rumors  ;  thus  giving  her  the  first  inkling  of  a 
state  of  affairs,  which  must  have  a  serious  bearing  on  her 
own  welfare  and  happiness  —  her  first  intimation  that  she 
might  soon  be  called  upon  to  resign  her  place  to  a  stranger 
—  a  step-motlier  !  This  had  been  her  secret  fear  ;  to  guard 
against  the  necessity  of  this,  she  had  struggled  with  grief 
and  weariness,  and  manifold  discouragements  —  had  labored 
uncomplainingly,  and  prayed  without  ceasing  for  patience 
and  strength. 

O 

Pale  and  still  listened  Isabel,  while  her  zealous  friend 
went  on,  warming  momently  with  her  subject,  commenting 
severely  on  the  heartless  machinations  of  ‘  the  widow,’  who, 
though  only  a  poor  music  teacher,  had  set  herself,  with  her 
coquettish  arts,  to  insnare  a  man  of  the  wealth  and  station 
and  years  of  Judge  Allston.  Isabel  was  silent :  but  she 
writhed  at  the  thought  of  her  father,  with  all  his  intellect  and 
knowledge  of  the  world,  becoming  the  dupe  of  a  vain,  de¬ 
signing  woman.  When  her  visitor  had  left,  Isabel  flew  to 
her  room,  flung  herself  into  a  chair,  and  covering  her  face 
with  her  hands,  wept  as  she  had  not  wept  since  the  first  dark 
days  of  her  sorrow.  Isabel  had  grown  up  with  a  deep,  pecu¬ 
liar  prejudice  against  step-mothers  ;  probably  from  knowing 
that  the  childhood  and  girlhood  of  her  own  idolized  mother 
had  been  cruelly  darkened  and  saddened  by  the  harshness 
and  injustice  of  one  ;  and  now,  there  was  bitterness  and 
sharp  pain  in  the  thought  that  those  dear  children,  for  she 
cared  little  for  herself,  must  be  subjected  to  the  4  iron  rule  ’ 
of  an  unloving  and  alien  heart. 

But  she  soon  resolutely  calmed  down  the  tumult  of  feel¬ 
ing,  as  she  would  fain  keep  her  trouble  from  the  children, 
while  there  still  remained  a  blessed  uncertainty.  Yet  she 
slept  little  that  night,  but  folded  Eddie,  her  babe,  closer  and 


36 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


closer  to  her  breast,  and  wept  over  him,  till  his  light  curls 
were  heavy  with  her  tears. 

The  next  morning,  which  was  Tuesday,  while  Isabel  sat 
at  breakfast  with  the  children,  a  letter  was  brought  in,  di¬ 
rected  to  her.  It  was  from  her  father,  at  S - .  Isabel 

trembled  as  she  read,  and  at  the  last  grew  very  pale,  and 
leaned  her  head  on  her  hand.  As  she  had  feared,  that 
letter  contained  a  brief  and  dignified  announcement  of  the 
approaching  marriage  of  her  father.  There  was  no  natural 
embarrassment  exhibited  ;  there  was  no  apology  made  for 
this  being  the  first  intimation  to  his  family,  of  an  event  of  so 
great  moment  to  them  ;  such  things  were  not  in  his  way  — 
not  in  character.  He  wrote  :  ‘  Cecilia  Weston,  whom  I  have 
now  known  nearly  two  years,  and  of  whom  you  may  have 
heard  me  speak,  is  a  noble  woman,  the  only  one  I  have  ever 
seen  whom  I  considered  fully  competent  to  fill  your  dear 
mother’s  place.  *  *  *  We  are  to  have  a  strictly  private 

wedding,  on  Saturday  morning  next,  and  will  be  with  you 
in  the  evening.  To  you,  Isabel,  my  dear  child,  1  trust  I 
need  give  no  charges  to  show  towards  Mrs.  Allston,  from 
the  first,  if  not  the  tenderness  and  affection  of  a  daughter, 
the  respect  and  consideration  due  the  wife  of  your  father. 
This,  at  least,  I  shall  exact  from  all  my  children,  if  it  be 
not,  as  I  fervently  hope  it  will  be,  given  willingly >and  grace¬ 
fully.’ 

When  Isabel  found  strength  and  voice  to  read  this  letter 
of  her  father’s  aloud,  the  unexpected  intelligence  which  it 
contained,  was  received  with  blank  amazement  and  troubled 
silence.  This  was  first  broken  by  the  passionate  and  impet¬ 
uous  little  Emma,  who  exclaimed,  with  flashing  eyes  and 
gleaming  teeth,  4  I  won’t  have  a  new  mother!  I  won’t  have 
any  mother  but  Isabel.  I  hate  that  Cecilia  Weston,  and  I’ll 
tell  her  so,  the  very  first  thing  !  I  won’t  let  her  kiss  me,  and 
I  won’t  kiss  papa  if  he  brings  her  here.  Oh,  sister,  don’t 
ask  her  to  take  off  her  things  when  she  comes,  and  maybe 
she  won’t  stay  all  night !  ’ 


the  step-mother. 


37 


4  Hush,  hush,  darling  !  ’  said  Isabel,  4 1  think  it  probable 
you  will  like  her  very  much;  I  hear  that  she  is  a  very 
beautiful  woman.’ 

‘  No>  1  won’‘  Me  her !  I  don’t  believe  she  is  pretty  at 
all ;  but  a  cross,  ugly  old  thing,  that  will  scold  me  and  beat 

me,  and  make  me  wear  frights  of  dresses,  and  "maybe  cut 
off  my  curls  !  ’ 

This  last  moving  picture  was  quite  too  much  for  4  Beauty,’ 
and  she  burst  into  tears,  covering  her  ringletted  head  all  up 
with  her  inversed  pinafore. 

Fiank,  now  a  tall,  noble-spirited  boy  of  fourteen,  was 
calm  and  manly  under  these  trying  circumstances,  but  ex¬ 
pressed  a  stem  resolve,  which  he  clinched  by  an  impressive 
classical  oath,  never,  never  to  call  the  unwelcome  stranger 
4  mother.'’  4  Mrs.  Allston  ’  would  be  polite  ;  4  Mrs.  Allston  ’ 
would  be  sufficiently  respectful,  and  by  that  name,  and  that 
only,  would  he  call  her.  Isabel  said  nothing,  but  inwardly 
resolved  thus  herself  to  address  the  young  wife  of  her  father. 

During  this  scene,  little  laddie,  who  only  understood 
enough  to  perceive  that  something  was  wrong,  some  trouble 
brewing,  ran  to  his  mamma,  and  hiding  his  face  in  her  lap, 
began  to  cry  very  bitterly  'and  despairingly.  But  Isabel 
soon  reconciled  him  to  life,  by  administering  saccharine 
consolation  from  the  sugar-bowl  before  her. 

It  was,  finally,  with  saddened  and  anxious  spirits  the  little 
affectionate  family  circle  broke  up  that  morning. 

With  the  bustle  and  hurry  of  necessary  preparations,  the 
week  passed  rapidly  and  brought  Saturday  evening,  when 
the  Allstons,  with  a  few  family  friends,  were  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  the  Judge  and  his  fair  bride. 

There  were  not  many  marks  of  festivity  in  the  handsome' 
drawing-room  ;  there  was  somewhat  more  light,  perhaps, 
and  a  few  more  flowers  than  usual.  Isabel,  who  had  never 
laid  off  mourning  for  her  mother,  wore  to-night  a  plain 
black  silk,  with  a  rich  lace  cape,  and  white  rose-buds  in  her 
'4 


38 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


hair;  Emma  was  dressed  in  a  light-blue  barege,  with  her 
pet  curls  floating  about  her  waist. 

At  length,  rather  late  in  the  evening,  a  carriage  was  heard 
coming  up  the  avenue,  and  soon  after  Judge  Allston  entered 
the  drawing-room,  with  a  tall  and  slender  lady  leaning  on 
his  arm.  Shrinking  from  the  glare  of  light,  and  with  her 
head  modestly  bowed,  Mrs.  Allston  entered,  more  as  a  timid 
arfd  ill-assured  guest,  than  as  the  newly  appointed  mistress 
of  that  elegant  mansion.  Isabel  advanced  immediately  to 
be  presented  ;  offered  her  hand  alone,  but  that  cordially  ; 
made  some  polite  inquiries  concerning  the  journey,  and  then 
proceeded  to  assist  the  bride  in  removing  her  bonnet  and 
shawl.  She  then  called  Emma,  who  advanced  shyly,  eyeing 
the  enemy  askance.  She  extended  her  hand,  in  a  half- 
diffident,  half-defiant  manner;  but  Mrs.  Allston,  clasping  it 
in  both  of  hers,  bent  down  and  kissed  her,  smiling,  as  she 
did  so,  on  the  loveliness  of  that  face.  The  blood  shot  up  to 
the  very  brow  of  the  child,  as  she  turned  quickly  and  walked 
to  a  distant  window-seat,  where  she  sat,  and  looked  out  upon 
the  garden.  It  was  a  moon-light  night,  and  she  could  see 
the  arbor  and  the  gleaming  of  the  white  tombstone  within, 
and  she  wondered  sadly  if  her  mother,  lying  there  in  her 
grave,  knew  about  this  woman ,  and  was  troubled  for  her 
children’s  sake. 

Frank  was  presented  by  his  father,  with  much  apparent 
pride,  to  his  young  step-mother,  who  looked  searchingly, 
though  kindly,  into  his  handsome,  yet  serious  face. 

It  was  some  time  before  Isabel  found  the  opportunity 
closely  to  observe  the  person  and  manner  of  her  father’s 
bride.  Mrs.  Allston  was,  as  I  have  said,  tall,  but  would  not 
have  been  observably  so,  perhaps,  except  for  the  extreme 
delicacy  of  her  figure.  She  was  graceful  and  gentle  in  her 
movements  —  not  absolutely  beautiful  in  face,  but  very 
lovely,  with  a  most  winning  smile,  and  a  sort  of  earnest  sad¬ 
ness  in  the  expression  of  her  soft,  hazel  eyes,  which  Isabel 
recognised  at  once  as  a  spell  of  deep  power  —  the  spell 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


39 


which  had  enthralled  the  heart  of  her  thoughtful  and  unsus¬ 
ceptible  father.  She  looked  about  twenty-five,  and  did  not 
look  unsuited  to  Judge  Allston,  who,  with  the  glow  of  happi¬ 
ness  lighting  up  his  face,  and  sparkling  from  his  fine,  dark 
eyes,  appeared  to  all  far  younger  and  handsomer  than  usual. 

Isabel  felt  that  her  father  was  not  entirely  satisfied  with 
the  reception  which  his  wife  had  met  from  his  children  ;  but 
he  did  not  express  any  dissatisfaction  that  night,  or  ever 
after. 

It  was  a  happy  circumstance  for  Isabel,  in  her  embarrassed 
position,  that  the  next  day  was  the  Sabbath ;  as  going  to 
church  and  attending  to  her  household  duties  absorbed  her 
time  and  attention  ;  thus  preventing  any  awkward  tete-d- 
tetes  with  one  whose  very  title  of  step-mother  had  arrayed 
her  heart  against  her  in  suspicion,  and  determined,  though 
unconscious,  antagonism. 

On  Sunday  afternoon,  about  the  sunset  hour,  Judge 
Allston  had  been  wont  to  go  with  his  children  to  visit  the 
grave  of  their  mother ;  but  this  Sabbath  evening,  I  need 
hardly  say,  he  was  not  with  them  there. 

‘  How  cool  and  shadowy  looks  that  arbor,  at  the  end  of 
the  garden,  where  Miss  Allston  and  the  children  are!  Let 
us  join  them,  dear  Charles,’  said  Mrs.  Allston  to  her  hus¬ 
band,  as  they  two  sat  at  the  pleasant  south  window  of  their 
chamber.  Judge  Allston  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then 
said,  in  a  low  tone,  ‘  That  arbor,  dear  Cecilia,  is  the  place 
where  my  Emma  lies  buried.’  The  young  wife  looked 
startled  and  somewhat  troubled,  but  said  nothing. 

On  Monday,  Isabel,  after  showing  her  step-mother  over 
the  house,  resigned  into  her  hands  the  house-keeper’s  keys, 
with  all  the  privileges  and  dignities  of  domestic  authority. 

Day  after  day  went  by,  and  Isabel  preserved  the  same 
cold,  guarded  manner  toward  her  step-mother,  though  she 
often  met  those  soft,  hazel  eyes  fixed  upon  her,  with  a  half¬ 
pleading,  half-reproachful  look,  which  she  found  it  difficult 
to  resist.  Frank  and  Emma  still  remained  shy  and  distant, 


40 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


and  ‘the  baby,’  constitutionally  timid,  would  scarcely  look 
at  the  stranger-lady,  who  sought  in  an  anxious,  ill-assured 
way,  to  win  its  love  and  confidence.  As  little  Eddie  shrank 
from  those  delicate  inviting  hands,  and  clung  about  Isabel, 
she  would  clasp  him  yet  closer  to  her  heart,  and  kiss  his 
bright  head  with  passionate  fondness. 

On  Friday  afternoon,  Mrs.  Allston’s  piano  arrived.  This 
was  a  great  event  in  the  family,  for  Isabel  did  not  play, 
though  she  sang  very  sweetly,  and  Frank  and  Emma  had 
a  decided  taste  for  music.  Mrs.  Allston  was  gifted  with  a 
delicious  voice,  which  she  had  faithfully  cultivated,  and  she 
played  with  both  skill  and  feeling. 

All  the  evening  sat  Judge  Allston,  gazing  proudly  and 
tenderly  upon  the  performer,  and  listening  with  all  his  soul. 
Isabel  was  charmed  in  spite  of  her  fears  and  prejudices,  and 
the  children  were  half  beside  themselves  with  delight. 

The  next  morning,  as  she  came  in  from  her  walk,  hearing 
music  in  the  parlor,  Isabel  entered,  and  found  her  step¬ 
mother  playing  and  singing  the  4  May  Queen,’  with  Emma 
close  at  her  side,  and  Frank  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
the  music.  The  touching  words  of  the  song  had  already 
brought  tears,  and  when  it  was  finished,  Mrs.  Allston  sud¬ 
denly  dashed  off  into  a  merry  waltz,  and  presently  Frank 
was  whirling  his  pretty  sister  round  and  round  the  room, 
to  those  wild,  exhilarating  notes.  When  the  playing  ceased, 

4  Oh,  thank  you,  mother  !  ’  said  Emma,  going  up  to  Mrs. 
Allston.  In  a  moment,  the  step-mother’s  arms  were  about 
the  waist,  and  her  lips  pressed  against  the  lips  of  the  child. 
That  name,  and  the  glad  embrace  which  followed,  struck 
the  foreboding  heart  of  Isabel.  Her  eyes  involuntarily 
sought  the  face  of  Frank,  and  she  was  not  displeased  to 
remark  the  lowering  of  his  brow  and  the  slight  curl  of  his 
lip. 

But  the  evening  of  the  very  next  day,  Isabel,  on  entering 
the  parlor,  found  Frank  alone  with  his  beautiful  step-mother, 
sitting  on  a  low  ottoman  at  her  side,  as  she  half  reclined  on 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


41 


a  sofa,  and  leaning  his  head  against  her  knee,  while  her 
soft,  white  fingers  were  threading  his  wavy,  luxuriant  hair. 
Isabel,  giving  one  startled  glance  at  the  two,  who  were 
chatting  pleasantly  and  familiarly  together,  crossed  the 
room,  seated  herself  at  a  table,  and  took  up  a  book.  Pres¬ 
ently,  Frank  rose,  and  came  and  stood  by  her  side.  She 
looked  up  and  murmured,  with  a  slightly  reproachful  smile, 
1  Et  tu  Brute .’  The  boy  colored,  and  soon  after  left  the 
room. 

Thus  the  days  wore  on ;  Isabel  feeling  her  treasures 
wrested  one  after  another  from  the  fond  and  jealous  hold 
of  her  heart;  sorrowing  in  secret  over  her  loss,  and  still 
pressing  her  mother’s  holiest  legacy,  her  child,  dear  little 
Eddie,  close,  and  closer  to  her  breast. 

One  afternoon,  when  the  hour  came  for  their  daily  ride, 
she  missed  the  child  from  her  room.  After  looking  through 
parlor,  kitchen,  and  hall,  and  calling  through  the  garden, 
she  sought  Mrs.  Allston’s  chamber,  from  whence,  as  she 
knocked  at  the  door,  she  heard  the  sound  of  singing  and 
laughter.  4  Come  in  !  ’  said  a  light  musical  voice.  She 
opened  the  door  hastily,  and  there  sat  little  traitorous  Eddie, 
in  his  step-mother’s  lap,  playing  with  her  long,  auburn 
ringlets,  while  she  sung  him  merry  songs  and  nursery- 
rhymes. 

4  Eddie  !  ’  exclaimed  Isabel,  somewhat  sharply,  4  you  must 
come  with  mamma,  and  be  dressed  for  a  ride.’ 

4  No,  no,’  cried  the  perverse  child,  4 1  don’t  want  to 
ride  —  I’d  rather  stay  with  my  pretty  new  mamma,  and 
hear  her  sing  about  “  Little  Bo-peep.”  ’ 

4  No,  my  dear,  you  must  go  with  your  sister,’  said  Mrs. 
Allston,  striving  to  set  the  little  fellow  down. 

Isabel  advanced  to  take  him,  but  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
step-mother’s  lap,  and  screamed,  4  Go  away,  go  away  ;  I 
love  this  mamma  best — I  won’t  go  to  ride  with  you  !  ’ 

Pale  as  death,  Isabel  turned  hurriedly  and  passed  from 
the  room.  She  almost  flew  through  the  house  and  garden, 

4* 


42 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


to  the  arbor,  to  the  grave  of  her  mother.  There  she  flung 
herself  upon  the  turf,  and  clasped  the  mound,  and  pressed 
her  poor,  wounded  heart  against  it,  and  wept  aloud. 

4  They  have  all  left  me  !  ’  she  cried  ;  4  I  am  robbed  of  all 
love,  all  comfort;  I  am  lonely  and  desolate.  Oh,  mother, 
mother !  ’ 

While  thus  she  lay,  sorrowing  with  all  the  bitterness  of 
a  new  bereavement,  she  was  startled  by  a  deep  sigh,  and 
looking  up,  she  beheld  Mrs.  Allston  standing  at  her  side. 
Instantly  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  exclaiming,  4  Have  I  then 
no  refuge  ?  Is  not  even  this  spot  sacred  from  officious  and 
unwelcome  intrusion  ?  ’ 

4  Oh,  forbear,  I  entreat  !  ’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Allston,  with  a 
sudden  gush  of  tears.  4  Pray  do  not  speak  thus  to  me  !  — 
you  do  not  know  me.  I  seek  to  love  you,  to  be  loved  by 
you  —  this  is  all  my  sin.’ 

Isabel  was  softened  by  those  tears,  and  murmured  some 
half-articulate  apology  for  the  passionate  feeling  which  she 
had  exhibited. 

4  Dear  Isabel,’  said  her  step-mother,  4  will  you  hear  my 
little  history,  and  then  judge  whether  I  have  erred  in  assum¬ 
ing  the  relation  which  I  now  bear  towards  you  ?  ’ 

Isabel  bowed  her  head  in  assent,  and  Mrs.  Allston  seated 
herself  in  the  arbor ;  but  Isabel  remained  standing,  with  a 
firm-set  lip  and  her  arms  folded. 

4 1  fear,’  began  Cecilia,  ‘  that  your  father  has  not  been  as 
communicative  and  confidential  with  you  as  he  should  have 
been.  I  heard  from  him  this  morning,  with  much  surprise, 
that  he  had  told  you  very  little  concerning  me  and  our  first 
acquaintance.  He  said  that  you  never  seemed  to  wish  for 
his  confidence,  and  he  could  not  thrust  it  upon  you.  I  know 
that  you  must  wonder  greatly  how  your  beloved  father  could 
choose  a  woman  like  me  —  poor  and  without  station,  or 
high  connections.’ 

4  No,’ replied  Isabel,  coldly ;  4  on  the  contrary,  I  wonder 
most  that  you,  so  young  and  richly  endowed  by  nature, 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


43 


could  prefer  a  man  of  the  years  and  character  of  my  father. 

I  know  not  what  there  is  in  him  for  a  beautiful  woman  to 
fancy.’ 

‘  Ah,  Isabel,’  said  Mrs.  Allston,  looking  up  reproachfully, 

4 1  never  fancied  your  father.  It  is  with  a  worthier,  deeper, 
holier  feeling  that  I  regard  him.’ 

Isabel  sat  down  on  the  rustic  seat  near  her  step-mother, 
who  continued,  in  a  low  but  fervent  tone. 

4  Yes,  Isabel  ;  I  love  your  father,  dearly  love  him  :  he  is 
the  only  man  I  have  ever  loved.’ 

4  What  !  ’  exclaimed  Isabel ;  4  were  you  not,  then,  a 
widow  when  you  married  him  !  ’ 

4  Why  no,  dear.  Why  did  you  suppose  it  ?  ’ 

4 1  heard  so  —  at  least,  I  heard  that  you  were  in  deep 
mourning.’ 

4  That  was  for  my  mother,’  replied  Mrs.  Allston,  with  a  ' 
quivering  lip  ;  4  yet,  until  now,  I  have  not  been  out  of 
mourning  for  many,  many  years.  I  have  seen  much  sor¬ 
row,  Isabel.’ 

The  warm-hearted  girl  drew  nearer  to  her  step-mother, 
who,  after  a  brief  pause,  continued  — 

4  My  father,  who  was  a  lawyer  of  S - ,  died  while  I 

was  quite  young  —  a  school-girl,  away  from  home,  already 
pursuing  with  ardor  the  study  of  music.  He  left  my  mother 
very  little  besides  the  house  in  which  he  lived.  My  only 
brother,  Alfred,  a  noble  boy,  in  whom  our  best  hopes  were 
centred,  had  entered  college  only  the  year  before  father 
died.  Then  it  was  that  my  mother,  with  the  courage  of  a 
true  heroine  and  the  devotion  of  a  martyr,  resolved  to  re¬ 
move  neither  of  her  children  from  their  studies,  but,  by  her 
own  unassisted  labor,  to  keep  me  at  my  school  and  Alfred 
in  college. 

She  opened  a  large  boarding  house  in  S - ,  princi¬ 

pally  for  gentlemen  of  the  bar  ;  and,  almost  from  the  first, 
was  successful.  I  remained  two  years  longer  at  school, 
when  a  lucrative  situation  was  offered  me,  as  a  teacher  of 


44 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


music,  in  the  family  of  a  wealthy  southern  Senator.  I 
parted  from  my  mother,  from  dear  Alfred,  and  went  with  the 
Ashtons  to  Georgia.  There  I  remained  year  after  year,  ever 
toiling  cheerfully  in  the  blessed  hope  of  returning  North, 
with  the  means  of  restoring  my  beloved  mother  to  her  for¬ 
mer  social  position,  and  of  freeing  her  from  toil  aud  care  for 
the  remainder  of  her  days.  This  was  the  one  constant 
desire  of  my  heart  —  the  one  great  purpose  of  my  life.  I 
thought  not  of  pleasure,  I  cared  not  for  distinction,  or  admi¬ 
ration,  or  love.  I  thought  only  of  her ;  my  patient,  self- 
sacrificing,  angel  mother.’ 

Here  Isabel  drew  nearer,  and  laid  her  hand  in  that  of  her 
step-mother,  who  pressed  it  gently  as  she  continued  — 

‘Brother  Alfred,  immediately  on  leaving  college,  com¬ 
menced  the  study  of  the  law.  I  shall  ever  fear  that  he 
confined  himself  too  closely  and  studied  too  intensely.  His 
constitution  was  delicate,  like  his  father’s  ;  and,  after  a  year 
or  two,  his  health,  never  vigorous,  began  to  fail.  Mother 
finally  wrote  to  me  that  she  was  anxious  about  him  ;  though 
she  added,  perhaps  her  affection  for  the  beloved  one  made 
her  needlessly  fearful.  Yet  I  was  alarmed,  and  hastened 
home  some  months  before  my  engagement  had  expired.  I 
had  then  been  absent  five  years  ;  but  I  had  seen  mother  and 
Alfred  once  in  that  time,  when  they  had  met  me  on  the  sea¬ 
shore. 

‘  It  was  a  sultry  afternoon  in  August  when  I  reached 

S - .  I  shall  never  forget  how  wretchedly  long  and 

weary  seemed  the  last  few  miles,  and  how  eagerly  I  sprang 
down  the  carriage-steps  at  last.  I  left  my  baggage  at  the 
hotel,  and  ran  over  to  my  mother’s  house  alone.  I  entered 
without  knocking,  and  went  directly  to  our  mother’s  little 
private  parlor  —  the  room  of  the  household.  I  opened  the 
door  very  gently,  so  as  to  surprise  them.  At  the  first 
glance,  I  thought  the  room  was  empty  ;  but  on  looking 
again,  I  saw  some  one  extended  on  the  familiar,  chintz- 
covered  sofa.  It  was  Alfred,  asleep  there.  I  went  softly 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


45 


up  and  looked  down  upon  his  face.  Oh,  my  God,  what  a 
change  !  It  was  thin  and  white,  save  a  small  red  spot  in 
either  cheek.  One  hand  lay  half-buried  in  his  dark,  chest¬ 
nut  curls,  which  alone  preserved  their  old  beauty,  and  that 
hand  —  how  slender  and  delicate  it  had  grown,  and  how 
distinct  was  every  blue  vein,  even  the  smallest  !  As  I  stood 
there,  heart-wrung  with  sudden  grief,  my  tears  fell  so  fast 
on  his  face  that  he  awoke,  and  half-raised  himself,  looking 
up  with  a  bewildered  expression.  Just  then,  dear  mother 
came  in,  and  we  all  embraced  one  another,  and  thanked 
God  out  of  the  overflowing  fulness  of  our  hearts.  As  I 
looked  at  Alfred  then,  his  eyes  were  so  bright  and  his  smile 
so  glad  —  so  like  the  old  smile  —  I  took  courage  again  ;  but 
he  suddenly  turned  away  and  coughed  lightly  —  but  such  a 
cough  !  It  smote  upon  my  heart  like  a  knell. 

‘  When  I  descended  from  my  chamber  that  evening,  after 
laying  aside  my  travelling-dress,  I  found  a  gentleman,  a 
stranger,  sitting  by  Alfred’s  side  reading  to  him,  in  a  low, 
pleasant  voige.  That  stranger,  Isabel,  was  your  father  — 
Alfred’s  best,  most  beloved  friend. 

4  I  will  not  pain  your  heart  by  dwelling  on  our  great 
sorrow,  as  we  watched  that  precious  life,  the  treasury  of 
many  hopes  and  much  love,  passing  away.  With  the  fading 
and  falling  of  the  leaf,  with  the  dying  of  the  flowers,  he 
died  !  ’ 

Here  Mrs.  Allston  paused,  and  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  while  the  tears  slid  slowly  through  her  fingers.  And 
she  wept  not  alone.  At  length  she  continued  — 

4  I  have  since  felt  that  with  poor  Alfred’s  last  dying  kiss, 
the  chill  of  death  entered  into  dear  mother’s  heart ;  for  she 
never  was  well  after  that  night.  Though  she  sorrowed  bit¬ 
terly  for  that  only  son,  so  good  and  so  beautiful,  she  said  she 
wished  to  live  for  my  sake.  Yet  vain  was  that  meek  wish  — 
vain  were  my  love  and  care  —  vain  the  constant,  agonized 
pleading  of  my  soul  with  the  Giver  of  life.  She  failed  and 
drooped  daily,  and  within  a  year,  she  was  laid  beside  father, 


46 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


and  very  near  to  Alfred.  She  died,  and  left  me  alone  — 
alone  in  the  wide  world  !  Oh,  how  often,  dear  Isabel,  have 
I,  like  you,  cried  out  with  that  exceeding  bitter  cry  of  the 
orphan,  “  Oh,  mother,  mother  !  ’” 

Here  Isabel  flung  her  arms  around  her  step-mother,  and 
pressed  her  lips  against  her  cheek. 

‘  In  all  this  time,’  pursued  Cecilia,  ‘  my  chief  adviser  and 
consoler  was  the  early  friend  of  my  mother,  the  generous 
patron  of  my  brother  —  your  father,  Isabel.  And  when  the 
first  fearful  days  of  my  sorrow  had  gone  by,  and  he  came 
to  me  in  the  loneliness  and  desolation  of  my  life,  and  strove 
to  give  me  comfort  and  courage  —  telling  me  at  last  that  he 
needed  my  love,  even  the  love  of  my  poor,  crushed  heart  — 
then  I  felt  that  in  loving  him  and  his,  I  might  hope  for  hap¬ 
piness  ever  more.  But  ah  !  if  in  loving  him  —  in  becom¬ 
ing  his  wife,  I  have  brought  unhappiness  to  those  near  to 
him,  and  darkened  the  light  of  their  home,  I  am  indeed 
miserable  !  ’ 

‘  Oh,  do  not  say  so  —  do  not  say  so  !  ’  exclaimed  Isabel. 
4  You  have  won  all  our  hearts.  Have  you  not  seen  how  the 
children  are  drawn  towards  you  —  even  little  Eddie,  my 
babe  ?  I  have  not  yet  called  you  by  her  name  —  I  do  not 
know  that  I  can  so  call  you  here ,  but  I  can  and  will  love 
you,  and  we  shall  all  be  very  happy ;  and,  by  God’s  help, 
44  kindly  affectioned  one  to  another  !  ”  ’ 

4  Ah,  my  dear  girl,’  replied  Mrs.  Allston  with  a  sweet 
smile,  4  I  do  not  ask  you  to  call  me  by  a  name  of  so  much 
sacredness  and  dignity  ;  —  only  love  me  and  confide  in  me 
—  lean  upon  my  heart,  and  let  me  be  to  you  as  an  elder 
sister.’ 

*  #  #  #  #  #  '  * 

The  evening  had  come,  and  Mrs.  Allston,  Isabel,  and  the 
children  were  assembled  in  the  pleasant  family-parlor, 
awaiting  the  return  of  Judge  Allston  from  his  office.  Isabel 
was  holding  little  Eddie  on  her  knee.  The  child  had  al¬ 
ready  repeatedly  begged  pardon  for  his  naughtiness,  and  was 


THE  STEP-MOTHER. 


47 


as  full  as  ever  of  his  loving  demonstrations.  Cecilia  was,  as 
usual,  seated  at  the  piano,  playing  half-unconsciously,  every 
now  and  then  glancing  impatiently  out  of  the  window  into 
the  gathering  darkness.  Isabel  sat  down  the  baby-boy,  and 
going  up  to  her,  said  — 

4  Will  you  play  the  44  Old  Arm-Cliair ,”  for  me  ? ’ 

4  If  you  will  sing  with  me,’  replied  Cecilia,  with  a  smile. 

The  two  began  with  voices  somewhat  tremulous,  but  they 
sang  on  till  they  came  to  the  passage  — 

1  I ’ve  sat  and  watched  her,  day  by  day, 

While  her  eye  grew  dim — ’ 

here  they  both  broke  down. 

Cecilia  rose  and  wound  her  arm  about  Isabel’s  waist,  and 
Isabel  leaned  her  head  on  Cecilia’s  shoulder,  and  they  wept 
together.  At  that  moment,  Judge  Allston  entered,  and  after 
a  brief  pause  of  bewilderment,  advanced  with  a  smile,  and 
clasped  them  both  in  one  embrace.  He  said  not  a  word 
then  ;  but  afterward,  when  he  bade  Isabel  good  night,  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairway,  he  kissed  her  more  tenderly  than  usual, 
saying,  as  he  did  so,  4  God  bless  you,  my  daughter!’ 


THE  IRISH  PATRIOTS  OF  ’48. 


The  rebel  patriots  of  Ireland,  O’Brien,  Meagher,  McMa¬ 
nus,  O’Donohue,  and  others,  at  this  present  time,  and  in 
their  present  position,  form  a  spectacle  of  fearful  interest. 
In  the  earnest,  concentrated  gaze  of  the  world  they  stand  ; 
for  them  the  hearts  of  millions  throb  with  irrepressible  ad¬ 
miration  ;  for  them  tears  of  mournful  apprehension  and 
indignant  sorrow  fall,  and  prayers  of  passionate  entreaty 
ascend.  But  from  no  Christian  country  goes  forth  to  them 
a  more  full  and  perfect  sympathy  than  from  our  own,  the 
land  of  a  Washington,  the  asylum  of  an  Emmett.  They 
seem  to  us  so  much  the  incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  Irish 
freedom,  that  we  can  but  fear  that  in  their  exile,  or  death, 
she  shall  be  exiled  or  perish  forever.  But  no  —  as  God 
liveth,  no  !  Bather  shall  the  sacrifice  of  their  young  lives, 
with  all  that  made  them  beautiful  and  glorious,  gift  their 
dying  country  with  c  newness  of  life,’  with  vigor  and  power, 
and  a  hope  grand,  solemn,  and  eternal  as  the  heavens. 
While  she  may  number  such  heroic  sons  among  her  living, 
or  hdP  dead ,  she  may  not,  she  will  not  despair,  though  she 
clank  chains  on  every  limb  —  though  she  were  bound  to  the 
earth  with  a  thousand  thongs. 

Whether  these  heroes  meet  the  death  of  shame  upon  the 
scaffold,  or  drag  out  a  wretched  existence  as  the  galley- 
slaves  of  tyranny,  their  imperishable  names,  exalted  and 
sanctified,  shall  pass  into  the  watch- words  of  the  brave,  and 


THE  IRISH  PATRIOTS  OF  ’48. 


49 


become  the  rallying  cry  of  liberty  throughout  the  world  — 
in  the  last  great  contest  of  freedom  with  oppression,  shall 
lead  the  battle-van  like  living  heroes,  and  mingle  in  the 
grand  anthem  which  rings  to  heaven  in  the  hour  of  victory. 
Oh !  immortality  of  love,  and  gratitude,  and  reverence  !  — 
oh  !  godlike  apotheosis  !  —  will  not  the  assurance  of  this 
bear  them  up  through  all,  while  they  toil  through  sultry 
days,  or  sigh  through  weary  nights,  where  the  wild  wastes 
of  southern  seas  stretch  around  them,  or  when  the  more 
terrible  sea  of  human  heads  surges  about  the  scaffold,  in 
that  hour  when  the  life-blood  of  their  brave  hearts  must  be 
poured  forth,  a  mournful  oblation  on  the  ruined  and  dese¬ 
crated  shrine  of  their  country’s  liberty  ? 

Where,  in  all  the  annals  of  history  or  the  records  of 
eloquence,  may  be  found  a  nobler  expression  of  devoted 
and  undaunted  heroism  than  the  last  vindication  of  young 
Meagher  ?  Grand  in  its  simplicity,  beautiful  in  its  truth,  and 
solemn  in  its  prophecy,  it  must  live  while  a  human  heart 
throbs  for  freedom, .  or  reverences  her  defenders.  How 
lofty,  yet  how  mournfully  tender  is  the  conclusion ;  his 
country  should  lay  these  words  to  her  heart  as  dear  and 
sacred  things,  to  be  pondered  oft  and  treasured  forever:  — 

‘  My  lords,  you  may  deem  this  language  unbecoming  in 
me,  and  perchance  it  may  seal  my  fate ;  but  I  am  here  to 
speak  the  truth,  whatever  it  may  cost.  I  am  here  to  regret 
nothing  that  I  have  ever  done,  to  retract  nothing  that  I  have 
ever  said.  I  am  not  here  to  crave,  with  lying  lip,  the  life  I 
consecrate  to  the  liberty  of  my  country.  Far  from  it  even 
here,  where  the  thief,  the  libertine,  the  murderer,  have  left 
their  foot-prints  in  the  dust ;  here,  in  this  spot,  where  the 
shadow  of  death  surrounds  me,  and  from  which  I  see  an 
early  grave  in  an  unannointed  soil  open  to  receive  me ; 
even  here,  encircled  by  these  terrors,  that  hope  which  beck¬ 
oned  me  to  the  perilous  sea  on  which  I  have  been  wrecked, 
still  consoles,  animates  and  enraptures  me.  No !  I  do  not 
despair  of  my  poor  old  country — her  peace,  her  liberty, 

5 


50 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


her  glory.  For  that  country  I  can  now  do  no  more  than 
bid  her  hope.  To  lift  this  island  up  —  to  make  her  a  bene¬ 
factor  to  humanity  instead  of  what  she  is  —  the  meanest 
beggar  in  the  world  —  to  restore  to  her  her  native  powers 
and  her  ancient  constitution  —  this  has  been  my  ambition, 
and  this  ambition  has  been  my  crime.  Judged  by  the 
laws  of  England,  I  know  this  crime  entails  the  penalty  of 
death. 

*  But  the  history  of  Ireland  explains  my  crime,  and  justi¬ 
fies  it.  Judged  by  that  history,  I  am  no  criminal’  —  (and 
turning  round  toward  his  fellow-prisoner,  McManus)  —  1  you 
are  no  criminal’  —  (and  to  O’Donohue)  — 4  you  are  no 
criminal,  and  we  deserve  no  punishment.  Judged  by  that 
history,  the  treason  of  which  I  have  been  convicted,  loses 
all  its  guilt  —  is  sanctioned  as  a  duty  —  will  be  ennobled 
as  a  sacrifice.  With  these  sentiments,  my  lord,  I  await  the 
sentence  of  the  court.  Having  done  what  I  feel  to  be  my 
duty  ;  having  spoken  now,  as  I  did  on  every  occasion  during 
my  short  life,  what  I  felt  to  be  the  truth,  I  now  bid  farewell 
to  the  country  of  my  birth,  my  passion  and  my  death  ;  that 
country  whose  misfortunes  have  invoked  my  sympathies ; 
whose  factions  I  sought  to  still  ;  whose  intellect  I  prompted 
to  a  lofty  aim  ;  whose  freedom  has  been  my  fatal  dream. 
I  offer  to  that  country,  as  a  pledge  of  the  love  I  bear  her, 
and  the  sincerity  with  which  I  thought  and  spoke,  and 
struggled  for  her  freedom,  the  life  of  a  young  heart ;  and 
with  that  life  all  the  hopes,  the  honors,  the  endearments  of 
a  happy  and  an  honorable  home.  Pronounce,  then,  my 
lords,  the  sentence  which  the  law  directs,  and  I  trust  I  will 
be  prepared  to  meet  it,  and  to  meet  its  execution.  I  trust, 
too,  that  I  shall  be  prepared  with  a  pure  heart  to  appear 
before  a  higher  tribunal  —  a  tribunal  where  a  Judge  of 
infinite  goodness,  as  well  of  infinite  justice,  will  preside  ; 
and  where,  my  lords,  many,  many  of  the  judgments  of  this 
world  will  be  reversed.’ 

How  dare  England  even  condemn  such  men  to  death  at 


THE  IRISH  PATRIOTS  OF  ’48. 


51 


thus  time,  when  the  roused  elements  of  justice  and  freedom 
are  rocking  and  convulsing  the  world  !  —  the  day  when  the 
"  hole  air  is  filled  with  strange,  fearful  sounds  and  confused 
voices  of  warning  and  dismay  !  There  is  a  volcanic  ele¬ 
ment  at  work  in  Ireland  still  —  darkly  and  silently  at  work, 
but  which  shall  yet 

Break  on  the  darkness  ot  her  thick  despair, 

Like  Etna  on  deep  midnight  — lighting  up, 

With  lurid  glow,  oppression’s  pall-like  clouds; 

And  pouring  madly  forth  a  lava  tide 

To  scathe  and  whelm  the  seats  of  ancient  wrorm  f  ’ 

O 

Let  England  beware  !  Patriotism  is  an  immortal  spirit ; 
heroism  an  eternal  truth.  The  political  as  well  as  the 
religious  martyr  but  gives  a  higher  beauty,  a  more  solemn 
grandeur  to  the  cause  for  which  he  dies.  Eighteen  hundred 
years  ago,  on  Calvary’s  sacred  mount,  was  taught  a  sublime 
lesson  of  self-sacrifice,  which  is  but  repeated  whenever  and 
wherever  man  dies  for  man. 

It  is  in  vain  to  say  that  the  sacrificed  life  of  the  patriot  is 
e\ei  thrown  away.  His  blood,  whether  poured  upon  the 
battle-field,  or  reeking  from  the  scaffold,  is  not  drank  up  by 
the  insensible  earth  and  then  forgotten;  but  from  every 
drop  may  be  said  to  spring  an  armed  defender,  or  a  fervid 
apostle  of  the  faith  he  taught ;  or  it  is  exhaled  to  heaven  and 
descends  in  a  dew  of  terrible  vengeance  upon  his  enemies. 
His  death  quickens  the  life  of  nations.  His  memory  fills  the 
spirit  of  youth  with  grand  aspirations,  kindles  a  quenchless 
fire  in  his  heart,  puts  an  invincible  strength  into  his  arm  :  it 
becomes  to  the  brave  almost  an  object  of  adoration ;  they 
turn  to  it  in  the  darkness  of  strife  for  high  hopes  and  heroic 
promptings,  and  in  the  brightness  of  success  with  grateful 
joy  and  pride  :  it  is  written  on  their  heavens,  at  night  in 
stars,  at  noonday  in  rainbows. 

es,  true  it  is,  that  since  the  world  stood,  since  God 
ruled  in  heaven,  no  life  given  for  liberty  has  been  utterly 

*«*$&** 


52 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


lost,  no  cry,  or  aspiration,  or  defying  shout  for  freedom  has 
died  with  the  heart  from  whence  it  came,  though  breathed 
from  the  dying  lips  of  the  exile,  or  whispered  by  the  pris¬ 
oner  in  his  cell,  or  sent  forth  with  his  last  strength,  on  his 
last  breath,  by  the  soldier  when  he  went  down  alone,  amid 
thousands  of  the  foe.  The  immortal  spirit  of  freedom  from 
the  fallen  brave,  passes  into  and  animates  patriot  hearts, 
through  the  ages,  and  it  gains  new  power  and  majesty  with 
each  new  incarnation. 

But,  as  when  we  contemplate  the  crucified  one  and  the 
martyred  saints  of  old,  we  see  them  with  their  majestic 
glories  round  them,  wearing  their  4  crowns  of  rejoicing,’ 
encircled  with  the  halos  of  divinity,  and  behold  not  the 
wreath  of  thorns,  the  scourge,  the  piercing  spear,  the  rack, 
the  fire,  the  flood,  and  all  the  infernal  inventions  and  varie¬ 
ties  of  torture,  —  so  now,  as  we  fix  our  gaze  on  patriot 
heroes  and  freedom’s  martyrs,  we  speak  of  them  in  words 
of  triumph,  for  the  moral  height  on  which  they  stand  seems 
a  very  4  mount  of  transfiguration,’  and  wrapped  about  in  its 
glory  they  seem  exalted  above  earth,  its  weakness,  ties, 
and  transient  associations.  Ah  !  we  see  not  the  mocking 
and  scourging  of  their  degradation,  the  crucifixion  of  their 
manhood,  the  racking  of  the  spirit,  the  tiger-fangs  at  the 
breast,  the  molten  lead-drops  slowly  burning  into  the  brain, 
all,  all  the  fearful  tortures  of  their  human  nature  —  intensely 
human  —  for  from  their  perfect  humanity  their  heroism 
took  its  life. 

Could  we  look  into  the  depths  of  their  hearts,  and  behold 
how  dear  to  them  is  the  life  they  are  about  to  resign  for  the 
murderer’s,  fate,  or  the  slow  death  of  exile ;  could  we  re¬ 
member  with  them  its  early  promise,  and  romance,  and 
ideal  beauty,  or  the  grand  aspirations  and  splendid  dreams, 
and  manly  struggles  of  its  prime  ;  could  we  know  all  the 
hopes,  the  honors,  the  endearments  4  which  made  that  life 
beloved,’  and  all  the  sorrows,  buried  loves,  and  vain,  sweet 
visions  that  hallowed  it,  then  we  might  measure  the  height 
and  depth  of  their  sacrifice. 


THE  IRISH  PATRIOTS  OF  *48.  53 

Could  we  look  into  the  cell  of  the  condemned,  in  the 
deep  midnight,  when  the  gaze  of  curiosity  and  enmity  was 
excluded,  when  the  tide  of  outward  life  was  stilled,  or  beat 
against  the  prison-walls  with  faint  murmurs,  then  could  we 
behold  the  mighty  spirit  of  vitality,  the  unconquerable  love 
of  life  tugging  at  the  heart-strings  of  the  doomed  patriot ; 
could  we  witness  his  vain  efforts  to  crush  it  down  by  the 
power  of  heroic  endurance ;  could  we  see  the  convulsive 
quiver  of  the  lips,  the  sweat-drops  oozing  from  the  brow,  as 
the  stern  conflict  goes  on ;  and  oh  !  could  we  hear  him,  as 
thoughts  of  deeper  and  more  whelming  agony  beat  at  his 
heart,  groan  forth  the  names  of  his  dear  ones,  or  whisper 
them  in  a  tone  like  that  of  dying  tenderness,  in  a  love 
stronger  than  death,  a  love  overcoming  all  the  fears  and 
sufferings  of  self;  or  see  him  lift  his  eyes  heavenward,  with 
a  gaze  so  burningly  intense  it  might  almost  pierce  the  stony 
roof  of  his  dungeon,  and  breathe  for  those  loved  ones  the 
prayer  of  a  breaking  heart ;  could  we  see  all  this,  we  might 
measure  the  height  and  depth  of  their  sorrow. 

Could  we  look  into  the  darkened  homes  of  those  who 
hold  them  dear;  could  we  mark  the  gray-haired  sire,  bowed 
towards  the  earth,  as  though  impatient  for  its  grave-rest ; 
could  we  mark  how,  at  morning  and  evening  prayer,  his  lip 
trembles  and  his  voice  falters  at  the  sacred  words,  ‘  Thy 
will  he  done  ;  ’  could  we  look  into  the  face  of  the  mother, 
and  see  by  its  pallor  and  its  tears,  that  the  heart  was  break¬ 
ing  within  her ;  could  we  mark  the  sister’s  anguish,  the 
brother’s  agonized  sympathy,  the  bitter  wailing  of  the  child, 
the  fainting,  the  despair,  the  unutterable  grief  of  the  wife  ; 
the  lonely  weeping,  and  frightful  visions,  and  wild  prayers 
of  her  nights,  and  the  sick  gaze  she  opens  on  the  dawn 
which  brings  no  hope  to  her  worn  spirit ;  could  we  contem¬ 
plate  the  fair,  young  life  of  the  betrothed  maiden,  so  sud¬ 
denly  laid  desolate,  struck  down  and  broken  like  a  rare 
vase  once  filled  with  bloom  and  sweetness,  shattered  and 
lying  in  beautiful  fragments  before  us,  with  all  its  morning 


54 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


flowers  trampled  in  the  dust :  could  we  see  all  this,  we 
might  measure  the  height  and  depth  of  the  enormity  of  that 
condemnation  which  rends  so  many  clinging  ties,  immolates 
so  many  loves,  fills  so  many  homes  with  the  voice  of  weep¬ 
ing,  and  flings  upon  so  many  paths  thick  shadows  from  the 
wing  of  death. 

To  perish  £  upon  the  gallows  high,’  or  endure  a  life-long 
exile,  what  a  fate  for  those  proud  spirits  who  so  lately  saw 
in  their  enraptured  visions,  a  career  of  heroic  struggle  and 
glory  before  them,  and  their  beloved  country  redeemed  and 
disenthralled,  taking  her  old  place  among  the  nations  !  Oh, 
God  !  can  these  things  be  !  Alas  !  we  know  that  they  are 
now,  but  how  long  shall  they  endure  ?  Yet  let  us  still  the 
impatient  voices  of  our  hearts,  for  we  know  that  the  Author 
of  liberty,  the  Divine  source  of  right  and  justice,  liveth  and 
ruleth,  and  that  all  will  yet  be  well. 

Oh  !  royal  England,  may  not  thy  great  heart  be  even  yet 
touched  with  compassion,  and  thou  be  constrained  to  offer  a 
full  and  perfect  forgiveness  to  those  who  have  so  bravely, 
perchance  madly ,  rebelled  against  thy  dominion.  But,  if 
thou  wilt  show  no  relenting,  but  continue  hard  and  merci¬ 
less  to  the  end,  if  thine  onward  march  is  to  be  over  crushed 
spirits  and  ruined  homes,  as  heaven  is  above  thee,  the  day 
of  thine  own  fall,  the  day  that  shall  see  thee  also  over¬ 
whelmed,  shall  come  at  last ! 

‘  And  not  by  all  thy  glory  then, 

By  armed  hosts  arrayed, 

By  pomp,  and  power,  and  mighty  men, 

Can  God’s  right  arm  be  stayed  !  ’ 

Then  shalt  thou  feel  the  earth  heaved  beneath,  and  the  skies 
darkened  above  thee !  Then  shall  thy  foes  exult,  and  thine 
allies  tremble  ;  then,  from  the  warm  south,  the  chill  north, 
the  free  wild  west,  and  the  golden  east,  shall  ring  shouts  of 
triumph  ;  from  the  isles  of  the  sea  shall  go  up  paeans  of 
rejoicing ;  and  then  shall  the  angel  of  freedom  appear,  and 


THE  IRISH  PATRIOTS  OF  ’48. 


55 


roll  away  the  stone  from  the  sepulchre  of  Ireland’s  national 
spirit,  bidding  it  arise  to  a  glorious  resurrection  ;  while  the 
armed  watchers  over  a  sleep  they  deemed  eternal,  stand 
aghast,  drop  the  swords  from  their  palsied  hands,  and  faint 
in  their  armor. 

When  thus  Ireland,  thy  freed  sister,  begins  anew  her 
national  existence,  may  she  be  warned,  by  thy  fall,  against 
pride,  cruelty,  oppression,  extortion,  and  that  defiant  forget¬ 
fulness  of  God,  which  is  the  soul  of  all  tyranny  ! 


‘  A  MERE  ACT  OF  HUMANITY.’ 


A  SLIGHT  SKETCH. 


1  Health  to  the  art  whose  glory  is  to  give 
The  crowning  boon  that  makes  it  life  to  live.’ —  Holmes. 


Start  not,  my  fastidious  reader,  when  I  announce  that 
the  young  gentleman,  in  whose  favor  and  fortunes  I  would 
enlist  your  friendly  sympathies,  as  the  hero  of  this  sketch, 
is,  or  rather  was,  a  medical  student  !  Now  I  am  very  well 
aware  that  medical  students  are  proverbially  ‘  hard  cases  ’ 
—  wild,  spreeing,  careless,  skeptically  inclined  young  gen¬ 
tlemen,  whose  handkerchiefs  smell  of  ether,  and  whose 
gloves  are  strongly  suggestive  of  rhubarb  ;  whose  talk  runs 
large,  with  bold  jests  on  grave  subjects,  sly  anatomical 
allusions,  and  startling  hints  at  something 

1  Mair  horrible  and  awfu’, 

Which  e’en  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu’,’ 

and  whose  very  laughter  has  a  sort  of  bony-rattle  abou*  it. 

But  our  friend,  Will  Ashley,  fortunately  belonged  not  to 
the  Bob  Sawyer  and  Ben  Allen  class  of  Esculapian  dis¬ 
ciples.  He  was  a  man  of  refinement,  intellect,  education, 
and  principle  —  pleasing  address,  fine  person,  and  good 
family.  Republican  as  I  am,  I  can  but  thipk  much  of  good 
blood  —  pure  and  honorable  blood,  I  mean.  He  had  no 
bravado,  no  pretension,  no  recklessness,  no  skepticism  about 
him.  He  chose  his  profession  at  the  first,  from  a  real, 
natural  leaning  that  way,  and  pursued  it  with  true  enthu- 


4  A  MERE  ACT  OF  HUMANITY.’ 


57 


siasm  and  untiring  constancy ;  and  this  partiality  and  devo¬ 
tion  have  been  rewarded  with  the  happiest  success.  Dr. 
Ashley  is  now  regarded  by  his  many  patients,  with  a  re¬ 
markable  confidence  and  affection.  To  them,  there  seems 
4  healing  in  the  very  creak  of  his  shoes  on  the  stairs,’  his 
cheerful  smile  lights  up  the  sick  room  like  sunshine  ;  his 
gentle  words  and  sympathetic  tones  are  as  balm  and  4  fresh¬ 
ening  oil  ’  to  hearts  and  minds,  wounded  and  distempered 
with  the  body,  and  his  bright  laugh  and  playful  wit  are  a 
positive  tonic  to  the  weak  and  nervous  and  fearful.  But  I 
am  anticipating ;  my  story  has  perhaps  the  most  to  do  with 
the  student-life  of  Ashley. 

When  William  was  quite  young,  a  mere  boy  indeed,  he 
became  much  attached  to  a  pretty  cousin  of  his  own  —  a 
gentle,  dark-eyed,  Southern  girl,  who  made  her  home  for 
some  years  with  his  mother  and  sister,  in  the  quiet,  New 
England  city  of  H - ,  where  she  was  attending  school. 

Jessie  Archer  was,  in  truth,  a  lovely  creature  ;  with  a 
heart  full  of  all  good  and  kindly  feelings ;  with  a  soft, 
endearing  manner,  but  with  very  little  strength  of  character, 
or  stability  of  purpose.  She  tenderly  loved  her  Northern 
relatives,  and  parted  from  them  at  last,  from  her  cousin 
William  in  particular,  with  many  tears  and  passionate  ex¬ 
pressions  of  regret.  She  was  not  positively  betrothed  to 
this  cousin  —  such  a  measure  would  have  been  opposed  by 
their  friends,  on  account  of  the  extreme  youth  of  the  parties 
—  but  she  knew  well  his  love  and  his  dear  hope ;  that  he 
looked  upon  her  as  his  future  bride,  and  she  was  well 
content  with  this  understanding. 

As  a  matter  of  course,  and  lover-like  necessity,  William 
Ashley  corresponded  with  his  cousin.  At  first,  the  letters  on 
both  sides  were  frequent,  long,  and  confidential ;  but  after 
the  first  year  of  absence,  those  of  Miss  Jessie  changed 
gradually  in  their  tone,  and  became  4  few  and  far  between.’ 
But  William,  who  was  faithful  and  believing,  made  a 
thousand  kind  excuses  for  this,  and  continued  to  write  out 


58 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


of  his  own  affectionate  and  changeless  heart.  But  at  length 
his  Jessie  ceased  to  write  altogether.  Two  months  went  by, 
and  then  poor  Ashley,  in  much  distressful  anxiety,  wrote  to 
her,  entreating  to  be  told  the  cause  of  her  strange  silence. 
There  came  a  reply  at  last  —  a  brief  reply,  written  in  the 
dear,  familiar  hand,  but  bearing  for  a  signature,  a  strange 
name.  She  had  been  a  fortnight  married  to  a  wealthy 
Virginia  planter. 

This  home-thrust  at  his  heart  by  a  beloved  hand  ;  this 
sudden  annihilation  of  his  dearest  hopes,  by  her  whose 
sweet  source  and  centre  they  had  been,  almost  prostrated 
the  young  student,  mind  and  body.  He  was  proud,  sensi¬ 
tive,  and  twenty-one;  he  had  the  heart  and  was  at  the  age 
to  feel  acutely,  to  suffer  and  despair.  His  ambition  died 
out  his  energies  flagged  —  then  his  appetite  went  by  the 
boaid  ;  his  eye  grew  spiritless,  his  step  heavy,  and  his 
cheek  pale.  4  He  must  give  up  study,’  said  his  mother. 
He  must  take  a  journey,’  said  his  sister,  speaking  one  word 
foi  him  and  two  for  herself.  This  last  proposition,  which 
was  stiongly  pressed,  was  finally  acceded  to;  and  the  young 
gentleman  set  forth,  dispirited  and  ill,  under  the  care,  (‘pro¬ 
tection,’  she  called  it,)  of  his  charming  sister,  Ellen.  They 
■went  diiectly  West,  for  a  visit  to  the  Falls  ;  the  very  journey 
which  William  had  always  looked  forward  to  as  his  bridal- 
tour.  Now  it  seemed  but  to  depress  and  sadden  him  the 
more  ;  he  was  restless,  moody,  and  abstracted  —  the  very 
woist  travelling-companion  possible  to  have.  Ellen  found 
it  exceedingly  difficult  to  divert  him  from  his  melancholy 
thoughts  and  tender  recollections,  4  pleasant  and  mournful 
to  the  soul.  The  fine  scenery  along  their  route,  constantly 
reminded  him  of  the  double  pleasure  he  had  anticipated  in 
first  viewing  it  with  his  beautiful  bride. 

At  Buffalo,  our  travellers  took  the  afternoon  boat  for 

Chippewa.  It  was  a  bright  and  breezy  day,  early  in  July _ 

water,  earth  and  sky  were  lit  up  gloriously  by  the  declining 
sun,  as  they  swept  down  that  grand,  immortal  river.  As 


59 


1  A  MERE  ACT  OF  HUMANITY.’ 

the  brother  and  sister  stood  on  deck,  silently  drinking  in  the 
rare  beauty  of  the  scene  and  hour,  they  noticed  a  party 
near  them,  distinguished  amid  all  the  crowd,  by  a  certain 
quiet  elegance  of  dress  and  manner,  with  a  bearing  of 
perhaps  unconscious  superiority.  This  was  a  family  party, 
and  consisted  of  an  elderly  gentleman,  Mr.  Harley,  a 
wealthy  banker,  and  an  honorable  citizen  of  New  York  ; 
his  wife,  a  sweet,  motherly-looking  woman  ;  their  daughter, 
Juliet,  a  fair  and  delicate  girl  of  eighteen,  and  their  only 
son,  Master  Fred,  a  lad  of  nine  or  ten. 

Ashley  was  a  thorough  republican  —  poor  and  proud  ; 
and  being  now  more  than  usually  inclined  to  coldness  and 
reserve,  instinctively  shrunk  from  all  contact  with  this  party, 
in  whom  he  at  once  recognised  the  air  patrician  and  exclu¬ 
sive.  But  toward  evening,  Mr.  Harley  made  some  courteous 
advances,  and  finally  succeeded  in  getting  up  quite  a  free 
and  animated  conversation  with  his  young  fellow-traveller, 
with  whose  well-bred  air  and  thoughtful  countenance  he 
had  been  attracted  and  impressed.  They  discoursed  on  the 
magnificent  scenery  around  them,  then  on  the  battles  and 
sieges,  bold  generalship  and  grand  fighting  which  had  made 
classic  ground  of  the  wild  Niagara  frontier  ;  and  Ashley, 
who  was  an  admirable  talker,  soon  became  earnest  and 
even  eloquent,  in  spite  of  himself.  All  at  once,  in  looking 
up,  he  met  the  beautiful  blue  eyes  of  Miss  Juliet  fixed  upon 
him  with  evident  interest  and  admiration.  The  young  lady 
dropped  her  gaze  instantly,  while  a  deep  blush  suffused  her 
bright,  ingenuous  face.  An  involuntary  thrill  of  pleasure 
agitated  the  heart  of  Ashley,  and  his  cold  eye  kindled  with 
a  new  fire;  but  as  thought  returned  —  the  thought  of  all 
the  fickleness  and  coquetry,  and  heartlessness  of  woman, 
his  brow  clouded,  he  bit  his  lip,  and  with  a  few  hasty  words, 
turned  abruptly,  and  drawing  his  sister’s  arm  within  his 
own,  walked  to  the  side  of  the  vessel,  and  there  stood, 
silently  and  moodily,  gazing  down  into  the  darkening  waters 
and  off  into  the  deepening  twilight. 


60 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Owing  to  some  detention,  the  boat  was  later  than  usual, 
so  that  it  was  quite  dark  when  they  landed  at  Chippewa. 
On  leaving  the  boat,  Mr.  Ashley  and  his  sister  found  them¬ 
selves  directly  behind  the  party  with  whom  they  had  been 
conversing.  Mr.  Harley  looking  round,  and  seeing  them, 
began  making  some  inquiries  respecting  the  hotel  of  which 
they  had  made  choice,  when  Master  Fred,  who,  in  his  boy¬ 
ish  independence,  was  walking  alone,  suddenly  stumbled 
and  fell  —  fell  from  the  broad  plank  over  which  they  were 
passing,  into  the  river  below.  There  were  screams  and 
shouts,  and  rushings  to  and  fro,  but  no  rescue  was  attempted, 
until  Ashley,  breaking  from  the  clinging  hold  of  his  sister, 
leaped  boldly  into  the  deep,  dark  water.  For  a  few  mo¬ 
ments,  which  seemed  an  age  to  the  spectators,  he  searched 
in  vain  along  the  narrow  space  between  the  vessel  and  the 
wharf,  but  finally  he  espied  the  lad’s  head  appearing  from 
under  the  boat,  caught,  and  drew  forth  the  already  insen¬ 
sible  child,  and,  greatly  exhausted  himself,  swam  back  to 
the  plank  with  his  precious  burden.  They  were  drawn  on 
board  together  with  joyful  shouts  and  earnest  thanksgiving. 

As  Ashley  stood  in  the  gangway,  staggering  and  half 
blind,  the  crowd  cheering  and  pressing  around  him,  his 
sister  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  hung  upon  him, 
laughing  and  weeping  hysterically.  But  the  poor  fellow 
was  faint  and  chilled,  and  strove  to  release  himself  from 
her  passionate  embrace.  But  just  as  he  stood  free,  he  felt 
his  hand  clasped,  but  gently,  timidly,  and  looking  round, 
saw  Miss  Harley  at  his  side.  She  hastily  raised  that  cold, 
wet  hand  to  her  warm,  quivering  lips,  and  kissed  it  grate¬ 
fully,  while  her  tears,  her  irrepressible  tears,  fell  upon  it, 
as  she  murmered  —  ‘  God  bless  you  !  God  in  heaven  bless 
you !  ’  and  then  hurried  away  to  attend  upon  her  brother, 
who  had  been  carried  back  into  the  cabin,  The  little  lad 
soon  recovered  sufficiently  to  be  able  to  join  the  party,  who 
together  took  their  way  to  the  Clifton  House. 

That  night,  after  supper,  which  he  had  served  in  a  private 


61 


‘  A  MERE.  ACT  OF  HUMANITY.’ 

parlor,  Mr.  Harley  sought  the  room  of  Ashley  —  his  heart 
overflowing  with  gratitude  toward  the  young  hero,  and  his 
thoughts  busy  with  plans  of  generous  recompense.  At  the 
door  he  met  a  servant  bearing  away  a  wet  travelling-suit, 
which  sight  quickened  even  more  his  warm  and  kindly 
feelings.  He  entered,  to  find  Mr.  Ashley  wrapped  in  a 
dressing-gown,  sitting  by  a  table,  his  head  bent  down  on  his 
hands,  a  plate  of  light  food,  almost  untasted,  and  a  cup  of 
tea,  half  drank,  pushed  back  from  before  him.  He  was 
looking  even  paler  and  more  spiritless  than  usual.  In  fact, 
our  friend  was  completely  exhausted  by  the  excitement  and 
exertion  of  the  evening,  and  consequently  deepened  in 
moodiness  and  reserve.  He  rose,  however,  as  his  visitor 
entered,  and  bowing  politely,  begged  him  to  be  seated.  But 
Mr.  Harley  came  forward,  took  his  hand,  and  pressing  it 
warmly,  looked  kindly  into  that  pale,  quiet  face,  his  own 
countenance  all  a-glow,  and  tears  actually  glistening  in  his 
deep-set,  gray  eyes.  Ashley  cast  down  his  own  eyes  in 
painful  embarrassment,  which  Mr.  Harley  perceiving,  took 
the  proffered  chair,  and  strove  to  converse  awhile  on  indif¬ 
ferent  topics.  But  he  soon  came  round  to  the  subject 
nearest  his  heart ;  dwelt  long  and  at  large  on  his  paternal 
joy  and  gratitude,  not  seeming  to  heed  the  impatience  of  his 
sensitive  auditor,  and  finally  closed  with, — 

‘  I  trust  that  there  is  some  way  in  which  I  can  prove  my 
gratitude  —  in  part  reward  you  for  your  generous  heroism. 
Tell  me,  my  dear  young  friend,  can  I  repay  you  in  any 
way  ?  ’ 

To  Ashley’s  jealous  ear  there  was  a  tone  of  patronage  — 
an  insulting  jingle  of  the  banker’s  purse  in  these  words,  at 
which  he  involuntarily  drew  himself  up,  and  curled  his 
short  upper  lip  ;  and  when  Mr.  Harley  earnested  repeated 
his  question,  thus  : 

‘  Is  there  no  way  in  which  I  can  serve  you  ?  ’  he  replied 
with  a  sort  of  nonchalant  hauteur. 

‘  Yes  ;  by  never  mentioning  this  little  circumstance  again. 

6 


62 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


I  but  did  for  your  son  what  I  would  do  for  any  fellow- 
creature.  It  was  a  mere  act  of  humanity ,  I  assure  you.’ 

Mr.  Harley,  quite  taken  aback,  chilled,  and  withal  deeply 
hurt,  rose  at  once,  and  with  a  stately  bow  and  a  cold  ‘  good¬ 
night,’  parted  from  the  rescuer  of  his  child,  the  young  hero, 
with  whom  five  minutes  before  he  would  have  divided  his 
fortune.  Tired  and  indifferent,  Ashley  flung  himself  upon 
his  bed,  and  slept  soundly  till  late  in  the  morning;  then  rose 
with  a  headache,  made  a  light  breakfast,  and  hurried  down 
to  Table-Rock  with  his  sister,  who  had  been  up  since  day¬ 
break,  impatiently  awaiting  his  appearance. 

Ashley  was  long  lost  in  that  first  contemplation  of  the 
grand  scene  before  him  ;  his  soul  seemed  born  to  a  new  life 
—  a  new  world  of  beauty,  and  power,  and  dread,  over¬ 
whelming  sublimity. 

The  day  was  wondrously  beautiful,  and  floods  of  sunlight 
were  mingling  with  the  waters,  and  pouring  over  that 
stupendous  precipice  ;  into  the  darkest  deeps  fell  the  fear¬ 
less,  glad  sunbeams,  sounding  like  golden  plummets  those 
terrible  abysses.  There  hung  the  rainbow,  and  Ellen,  as 
she  gazed,  remarked  a  wild -bird,  who  seemed  sporting  in 
the  spray,  pass  through  the  illuminated  arch,  and  become 
glorified  in  its  midst ;  and  it  seemed  to  her  like  an  innocent, 
confiding  spirit,  coming  near  to  the  might  and  grandeur  of 
Deity,  through  the  beautiful  gateway  of  love. 

Ashley  was  at  length  roused  from  his  trance  of  high- 
wrought  rapture,  by  feeling  a  small,  timid  hand  laid  on  his 
arm,  and  turned  to  see  Master  Fred  standing  at  his  side, 
with  a  faint  glow  on  his  cheek,  and  an  affectionate  pleasure 
shining  in  his  sunken  eye.  The  lad,  to-day  something  of  an 
invalid,  was  accompanied  and  half-supported  by  a  servant. 
Ashley  felt  an  instinctive  attraction  toward  this  child,  who 
was  a  fine,  intelligent  boy,  by  the  way,  and  talked  with  him 
more  kindly  and  familiarly  than  he  had  ever  felt  disposed  to 
converse  with  the  elder  Harley. 

On  leaving  the  rock,  the  Ashleys  overtook  Mr.  Harley 


63 


‘a  mere  act  op  humanity.’ 

with  his  wife  and  daughter.  Juliet  blushed  painfully,  as  her 
eye  met  that  of  William,  but  she  bowed  and  smiled,  as  he 
bade  the  brother  and  sister,  4  Good  morning.’  Mr.  Harley 
merely  lifted  his  hat,  but  Mrs.  Harley,  who  had  been  so 
absorbed  the  evening  previous  by  her  intense  anxiety  for  her 
son,  as  almost  to  forget  his  brave  rescuer,  now,  dropping  the 
arm  of  her  husband,  and  grasping  the  hand  of  the  young 
student,  poured  the  whole  story  of  her  boundless  gratitude, 
of  her  deep,  immeasurable  joy,  into  his  not  willing  ear. 
But  after  all,  the  blessing  of  that  mother  sunk  into  his  heart 
—  a  good  heart,  though  somewhat  wayward,  and  sadly  out 
of  harmony  with  life  just  now. 

A  short  time  after  this,  Ashley  again  saw  Miss  Harley. 
They  met  in  a  fearful  place,  behind  the  sheet,  on  Termina¬ 
tion  Bock  —  the  secret,  dread  abode,  the  dim,  awful 
sanctuary  of  sublimity. 

Even  then,  Ashley,  exalted  by  poetry,  solemnized  by 
grandeur  as  he  was,  could  but  remark  the  miracle  of  beauty 
which  made  the  young  lady  look  lovely  as  ever  in  the  rude, 
grotesque  costume,  the  clumsy  water-proof  dress  provided 
for  this  adventurous  expedition.  He  next  noticed  the  fear¬ 
less,  yet  awe-struck  enthusiasm,  the  high,  rapt  expression  of 
her  face,  as,  sheltering  her  eyes  fron^  the  storm  of  spray 
with  her  fair  hand,  she  gazed  upward,  to  where  the  huge 
columns  of  water,  dark-green,  and  snowy-white,  leaped  over 
the  shelving  precipice,  and  plunged  with  a  thunderous  roar 
into  the  black  abyss  at  her  side. 

In  after  days  he  often  thought  of  that  fair  creature,  as 
she  thus  appeared  —  so  young,  so  delicate,  yet  so  brave  — 
so  lost  to  herself,  almost  to  life,  in  a  deep  trance  of  awe  and 
adoration.  He  often  thought  of  her  thus,  as  his  last  sight  of 
her;  for  after  this  they  parted ;  he  and  Ellen  passing  over 
to  the  American  side,  saw  no  more  of  the  Harleys  during 
their  brief  stay  at  the  Falls. 

Ashley  was,  almost  in  spite  of  himself,  much  improved  in 
health  and  spirits  by  travel ;  and  on  his  return  resumed  his 


64 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


studies  with  a  sort  of  dogged  devotion,  if  not  with  all  his  old 
enthusiasm.  Yet  sometimes,  as  formerly,  the  vision  of  a 
fair  being  would  come  to  disturb  and  distract  his  thoughts  — 
would  flit  across  his  humble  room,  be  almost  palpably 
present  to  his  waking  dreams.  But  it  hardly  seemed  the 
‘  lovely  young  Jessie,’  the  1  beloved  of  his  early  years  this 
was  a  fairer,  slighter  form,  clad,  oddly  enough,  in  a  heavy 
dress  of  yellow  oil-cloth,  with  a  sort  of  hood,  which,  half¬ 
falling  back,  revealed  a  sweet  face,  all  glorified  by  sublime 
adoration.  He  saw  —  how  distinctly  he  saw,  the  deep, 
abstracted  eyes,  the  bright,  parted  lips  —  ah,  those  lips ! 
whenever  he  recalled  them  by  some  mysterious  association, 
his  eye  would  fall  on  his  own  right  hand  —  a  tolerably 
symmetrical  hand,  surely,  but  with  nothing  more  peculiar 
about  it,  that  I  could  ever  see. 

The  fall  succeeding  the  journey  to  Niagara,  William 
Ashley  received  his  diploma,  and  the  next  spring  opened  an 
office  in  his  native  city.  Not  possessing  wealth,  or  much 
family  influence,  and  being  young  and  modest,  he  had  at 
first  few,  very  few  calls.  But  he  was  always  at  his  post, 
never  employed  his  leisure  unworthily,  or  was  idle  or 
desponding.  He  studied  as  diligently  as  ever,  and  waited 
patiently  for  those  patients  whom  he  rested  assured,  in  the 
future  —  the  fair,  golden  future  —  were  4  bound  to  come.’ 

It  happened  that  the  young  physician’s  way  home  from 
his  office,  lay  past,  and  very  near  to  the  elegant  residence  of 

Mr.  N - ,  a  wealthy  and  somewhat  distinguished  citizen 

of  H - ;  and,  pouring  through  the  open  windows  of  this 

mansion,  he  one  night  heard  the  sweetest  singing  that  had 
ever  met  his  ear.  It  was  a  clear,  fresh  contralto  voice, 
artistic  in  execution,  yet  sweet,  and  full  of  feeling. 

Ashley,  a  fine  singer  himself,  was  passionately  fond  of 
music  ;  and  he  lingered  long  before  that  house,  walking  up 
and  down  beneath  the  thick  shadows  of  the  grand  old  elms. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  pleasure  ;  night  after  night, 
for  some  weeks,  found  the  young  physician  in  the  same 


‘  A  MERE  ACT  OF  HUMANITY.’ 


65 


spot,  when  he  was  almost  always  so  happy  as  to  hear  that 
.  rare,  delicious  singing,  thrilling  and  quivering  through  the 
still  and  dewy  air.  It  was  generally  accompanied  by  the 
piano ;  but  sometimes  he  would  see  a  gay  group  on  the 
piazza,  and  among  them  a  slight  figure  in  white,  looking 
very  fair  and  delicate  in  the  moonlight;  then  there  would 
come  the  tinkling  of  a  guitar,  and  sweet  love-lays  of  Italy, 
or  wild  ballads  of  Spain. 

And  thus  it  went  on,  till  Ashley,  the  invisible  listener,  had 
become  altogether  enchanted,  spell-bound  —  in  love  with  a 
voice,  till  fast  and  far  in  the  dim  distance,  faded  away  that 
late  familiar  vision  in  yellow  oil-cloth  and  falling  hood,  and 
fair,  kindling  countenance.  He  now  spent  as  many  hours 
over  his  books  as  ever,  but  his  thoughts,  alas !  were  far 
enough  from  the  page  ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  and  expose  his 
boyish  folly,  he  was  constantly  dreaming  out  the  form  and 
features  of  the  dear,  unknown  —  of  her  with  the  voice. 
Unlike  his  former  self,  he  now  looked  searching  at  the  fair 
promenaders  whom  he  met  on  the  street,  and  he  there  saw 
pretty  young  ladies  enough,  but  no  one  in  whom  he  re¬ 
cognised  his  idea  of  the  sweet  singer. 

At  length  the  hour  of  good  fortune  came  alike  to  the 
physician  and  to  the  lover. 

Just  at  sunset,  one  pleasant  evening,  a  young  horseman 
came  dashing  up  to  Dr.  Ashley’s  office,  to  summon  him  to  a 
lady  who  had  dislocated  her  ankle  in  springing  from  her 
horse.  Our  hero’s  heart  beat  quick  as  the  messenger 

directed  him  to  the  house  of  Mr.  N - .  The  doctor  was 

shown  into  a  small  parlor,  where,  on  a  lounge,  clad  in  a 
white  wrapper,  reclined  his  first  patient.  A  wealth  of  rich, 
golden  hair,  somewhat  dishevelled,  first  attracted  Ashley’s 
eye  ;  there  was  something  strangely  familiar  in  those  bright 
curls,  and  he  was  not  taken  altogether  by  surprise  when  Mrs. 

N - presented  him  to  her  niece,  4  Miss  Harley .’ 

The  lady  was  lying  with  her  hands  over  her  face,  to 
conceal  the  tears  drawn  forth  by  her  acute  suffering ;  but  at 

6*  * 


66 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


the  mention  of  the  doctor’s  name,  she  removed  them,  and 
looked  up  eagerly,  smiling  in  the  midst  of  her  pain,  with 
pleasure  and  surprise. 

But  this  was  no  time  for  more  than  a  simple  recognition, 
and  the  next  moment  saw  the  doctor  bending  professionally 
over  the  throbbing  and  swollen  foot  of  the  sufferer. 

The  setting  of  the  dislocated  joint  caused  this  young  girl 
excruciating  torture  ;  but  she  bore  herself  through  all  with 
heroic  patience  —  the  silent  resignation  of  a  true  woman. 

Yet  when  all  was  over  —  the  ankle  bound  up,  and  a 
composing  draught  administered,  as  the  doctor  took  leave  of 
his  interesting  patient,  he  saw  that  her  cheek  was  deathly 
pale,  and  that  her  lips  quivered  convulsively. 

From  that  time,  for  some  weeks,  day  after  day,  the  young 

physician  might  have  been  seen  (by  Mrs.  N - )  kneeling 

by  the  side  of  Miss  Juliet’s  couch  —  bending  over  that  poor 
foot,  bathing  and  dressing  it,  watching  with  intense  interest 
the  subsiding  of  the  swelling,  and  the  disappearance  of  the 
discoloration,  till  it  became  at  last  white  and  delicate,  like 
its  mate  and  former  fellow-traveller. 

It  is  strange  how,  through  all  this  time,  the  late  music- 
mad  young  gentleman  existed  without  listening  to  the 
beloved  voice,  for  now,  through  the  windows  of  that  parlor, 
through  the  vines  and  roses  of  that  piazza,  no  sweet  singing 
floated  out  into  the  moonlight. 

I  told  you,  dear  reader,  that  Dr.  Ashley  used  to  kneel  by 
Juliet’s  side  to  dress  her  ankle  ;  but  when  that  was  better  — 
very  much  better,  almost  well,  indeed,  and  clad  in  silken 
hose  and  slipper  —  it  happened  that  once,  when  quite  alone 
with  his  fair  patient,  at  the  dreamy  twilight  hour,  the 
doctor  suddenly  found  himself,  by  the  force  of  habit,  I 
suppose,  in  his  old  position.  This  time  Miss  Juliet  bent 
over  him  till  her  hand  lay  on  his  shoulder  —  till  her  long, 
bright  curls  touched  his  forehead,  till  they  mingled  in  with 
his  own  dark  locks.  She  said  but  a  word  or  two,  and  the 
young  practitioner  sprung  up,  impulsively  and  joyfully,  and 


‘  A  MERE  ACT  OF  HUMANITY.’  67 

took  a  prouder  position  by  the  side  of  his  beloved  patient. 
His  arm  was  soon  about  her  slight  waist  —  to  support  her, 
probably,  as  her  recent  indisposition  had  left  her  but  weak ; 
her  hand  was  in  his  own  ;  and  as  he  held  it  thus,  he  mentally 
observed  —  ‘  Quite  the  quickest  pulse  I  have  ever  felt.’ 

Miss  Harley  called  herself  well,  but  she  did  not  seem 
perfectly  so,  while  she  remained  with  her  relatives  in 

H - ;  at  least  her  physician  called  more  and  more 

frequently,  nor  did  it  appear  that  her  poor  ankle  ever  quite 
regained  its  strength  ;  for  when  she  took  her  evening  strolls 
with  Dr.  Ashley,  they  were  observed  to  saunter  along 
slowly,  and  she  was  seen  to  lean  heavily  on  the  arm  of  her 
companion. 

It  is  said  that  there  are  men  who  think  that  a  slight  lame¬ 
ness  imparts  a  new  interest  to  a  lovely  woman,  and  Dr. 
Ashley  was  probably  one  of  these. 

One  fine  morning,  early  in  September,  Mr.  Ogden  Harley, 
the  rich  banker,  and  respectable  citizen,  was  seated  in  his 
cushioned  arm-chair,  in  his  elegant  library,  in  his  princely 
residence  in  Waverley  Place,  in  the  city  of  Gotham.  He 
was  looking  as  easy  and  comfortable  as  usual  —  as  well 
pleased  with  the  world,  and  its  ways  in  general,  and  its 
ways  toward  himself  in  particular ;  and  even  more  than 
usually  happy  and  genial. 

Mr.  Harley  was  not  alone  on  this  morning.  There  was 
then  and  there  present  a  young  man,  rather  tall,  and 
quite  handsome,  modestly,  yet  elegantly  dressed  —  (our 
friend,  the  doctor,  to  let  you  into  the  secret,  dear  reader)  — 
who,  with  a  very  red  face,  and  in  a  manner  half  proud,  half 
fearful,  was  just  making  a  confidant  of  the  old  gentleman 
—  telling  him  a  love-story  of  his  own,  in  short.  The  good 
man  seemed  greatly  interested  in  this  history,  badly  told  as  it 
was  ;  and  at  its  close,  he  rose,  quite  hastily  for  one  of  his 
alderman ic  proportions,  and  going  up  to  his  visitor,  and 
laying  his  hand  kindly  on  his  shoulder,  said, 

‘  With  all  my  heart  —  with  all  my  heart !  I  will  give  you 


68 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


my  Juliet,  and  place  her  fortune  in  your  hands ;  for  I 
honor  and  like  you,  young  man.’ 

Ashley,  quite  overcome,  could  only  stammer  out, 

4  Oh,  Mr.  Harley,  my  dear  sir,  how  can  I  ever  repay  you 
for  this  goodness  —  this  great  kindness  ?  ’ 

4  By  never  mentioning  this  little  circumstance  again  !  ’ 
replied  Mr.  Harley,  with  a  roguish  twinkle  of  the  eye. 

4 1  saw,  my  dear  boy,  what  a  sad  condition  you  were  in,  and 
this  is  "  A  Mere  Act  of  Humanity,  I  assure  you.”  ’ 


EFFIE  MATHER: 


/ 


A  TALE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 


CHAPTER  I. 

‘  With  Scripture-texts  to  chill  and  ban 
The  heart’s  fresh  morning  hours, 

The  heavy-footed  Puritan 

Goes  trampling  down  the  flowers.’  —  Whittier. 

Will  my  readers  send  their  thoughts  back  with  mine 
some  thirty  years,  and  look  in  with  me  upon  a  spacious  old 
mansion,  in  a  secluded  town,  lying  in  a  pleasant  New 
England  valley  ?  It  was  a  Sabbath  afternoon,  in  June. 
The  declining  sun  shone  clearly  through  the  open  windows 
of  a  handsome  parlor,  looking  out  on  an  extensive  garden, 
and  fell  on  an  interesting  family  group;  the  members -of 
which  may  perhaps  be  best  presented  in  single  portraits. 

The  father,  David  Mather,  was  a  tall,  thin,  hard-featured 
man  of  about  forty,  with  firmset,  smileless  lips,  and  a  cold, 
unsympathizing  eye.  He  was  wealthy,  and  possessed  much 
influence  in  his  native  town ;  was  at  the  head  of  all  school- 
committees,  calls  for  town-meetings,  &c.  ;  was  the  Post¬ 
master,  a  Judge  of  the  Court,  and  a  Deacon  in  the  Church. 
He  was  a  Calvinist  after  the  strictest  sect  of  the  Puritans  ; 
a  lineal  descendant  of  that  good,  old,  Quaker-hating  and 
witch-hanging  race  ;  zealous  apostles  of  the  gospel  of 
wrath ;  preachers  of  awe  and  fear  and  austere  living ; 
sworn  foes  of  the  beautiful  and  agreeable ;  despisers  of 


70 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


music  and  flowers ;  men  lightly  esteeming  women,  and 
having  small  indulgence  for  the  laughter  and  frolic  of  chil¬ 
dren  ,  men  of  whom  it  has  been  said  by  an  eloquent  New 
England  writer  :  — 

‘  To  look  with  indifference  upon  the  glories  of  the  visible 
universe,  and  to  despise  those  graces  of  the  outward  and 
inward  life  that  invest  the  Christian  character  with  an  inde¬ 
scribable  charm,  were,  in  their  narrow  opinion,  proofs  of 
godliness.  Their  God  was  the  sovereign  of  an  infinite 
desert,  whose  burning  sands  and  sharp  rocks  were  stained 
with  fhc  blood  and  tears  of  the  trembling  pilgrims  who 
came  to  do  homage  at  his  throne.’ 

Deacon  Mather’s  family  government  was  conducted  with 
a  lordly  imperiousness  and  a  cold  severity,  which  commonly 
awed  down  all  opposing  wills  into  passive,  if  not  cheerful 
submission.  Obedience  he  ever  required  5  ready,  unques¬ 
tioning,  perfect  obedience.  Hesitation  were  rebellion, _ 

remonstrance  high  treason. 

Deacon  Mather  was  a  man  of  prayer.  A  full  hour  of 
every  morning  and  every  evening  were  sacrificed  on  the 
family  altar,  which  was  the  most  ever  laid  thereon,  for  little 
of  devotion  and  earnestness  could  there  have  been  in  prayers 
repeated  standing,  and  without  variation  of  word,  or  tone, 
every  day  through  thirty  or  forty  years. 

Mrs.  Mather  was  rather  a  handsome  woman,  with  a  fine 
intellectual  brow,  and  a  large,  soft  black  eye,  but  pale  and 
languid.  Her  whole  countenance  and  air  were  expressive 
of  a  perfectly  subdued  and  submissive  spirit  ;  a  sad,  un¬ 
hoping,  uncomplaining  resignation.  It  was  said  that  she  had 
been  a  brilliant,  happy,  high-spirited  woman  in  her  youth, 
but  having  been  brought  into  subjection  to  a  stronger  will 
and  a  severer  character,  she  had  lost  first  her  gayety,  then 
her  spirit,  and  finally  seemed  almost  to  have  merged  her 
individuality  in  that  of  her  husband. 

The  eldest  son,  James,  was  strikingly  like  his  father.  He 
had  the  same  colorless  cheek,  the  same  sober  brow,  the 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


71 


cold,  deep-set  eye,  and  firm,  thin  lips.  In  character,  also, 
he  seemed  a  perfect  reproduction.  Unnaturally  serious, 
unsocial,  and  unyielding,  he  was,  even  in  boyhood,  precise 
and  Puritanical  —  an  observer  of  forms,  a  great  respecter  of 
small  proprieties.  He  was,  at  the  time  of  which  we  speak, 
about  sixteen  years  of  age,  and  was  tbe  pride  and  hope  of 
his  father. 

In  strong  contrast  with  this  boy-man,  was  tbe  second  son, 
Walter,  a  handsome,  healthful  lad,  of  about  twelve,  with  a 
keen,  clear  eye,  full,  laughing  lips,  and  an  unusual  degree 
of  independence  in  the  carriage  of  his  head.  Walter  was 
gifted  with  a  proud  and  liberty-loving  nature,  but  his  good 
sense  and  good  temper  commonly  kept  down  all  unfilial 
demonstration  of  indignant  feeling  against  the  domestic 
oppression  to  which  he  was  subjected.  The  most  he  was 
ever  guilty  of  was  a  petulant  betrayal  of  boyish  impatience 
at  confinement  and  reproof.  Pie  was  a  merry,  careless  lad, 
neither  very  studious  nor  industrious,  but  passionately  fond 
of  fishing,  skating,  and  all  the  usual  sports  of  boyhood.  His 
love  of  play  and  hate  of  books  and  work,  added  to  that 
bold  free  spirit  which  would  occasionally  flash  out,  caused 
him  to  be  more  keenly  watched,  and  more  hardly  dealt 
with  than  his  elder  brother.  Many  of  his  natural  tastes 
were  thwarted  ;  many  were  the  deprivations  and  disap¬ 
pointments  he  was  called  to  endure  in  the  absurd  attempt 
to  ‘  break  his  will,’  which  only  strengthened,  secretly  and 
sullenly,  at  unreasoqable  exactions  and  a  tyrannical  show  of 
power. 

Much  like  her  favorite  brother,  Walter,  in  many  respects, 
was  the  only  daughter,  Effie,  a  singularly  beautiful  girl  of 
ten.  But  hers  was  a  still  deeper  and  stronger  character. 
She  possessed  an  active,  imaginative  intellect,  a  sensitive 
and  generous  heart,  but  a  quick  and  passionate  temper. 
She  was  wild,  restless  and  daring  ;  self-willed,  but  not 
stubborn  $  more  whimsical  than  wilful,  a  thoughtless  and 
wayward,  but  a  thoroughly  original,  and  a  truthful  child  ; 


72 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


a  lover  of  mischief,  frolic  and  free  air,  and  a  vehement  little 
hater  of  restraints  and  despotic  governments.  She  was  one 
to  have  been  dealt  with  by  a  gentle  and  reasonable  author¬ 
ity,  in  a  sort  of  tender  firmness  ;  to  have  been  led,  rather 
than  driven  ;  influenced,  rather  than  controlled.  In  this  way 
she  would  probably  have  been  reared,  had  her  education 
been  left  to  her  mild  and  sensible  mother.  But  scarcely 
was  she  out  of  her  cradle,  ere  she  was  brought  under 
her  father’s  iron  rule  ;  her  little  sports,  her  dress,  and  her 
earliest  studies  were  regulated  by  his  will,  and  the  first  pas¬ 
sionate  outbursts  of  her  temper  were  punished  with  terrible 
severity. 

Effie  was,  as  I  have  said,  very  beautiful.  She  was  tall 
and  rather  large  for  her  age ;  her  complexion  was  dark,  yet 
lively  and  changing  ;  her  features  were  remarkably  regular  ; 
her  eyes  black,  but  softly  shadowed  by  thick,  long  lashes ; 
her  hair  was  luxuriant  —  in  childhood  curling,  but  as  she 
grew  older,  slightly  waving  above  her  broad,  clear  forehead. 
For  her  romantic  name  she  was  indebted  to  her  mother,  who, 
a  short  time  before  the  birth  of  her  little  daughter,  had  been 
reading  (by  stealth)  ‘  The  Heart  of  Mid-Lothian,’  and  it 
proved  in  many  respects  a  most  appropriate  name. 

But  to  turn  to  the  group  in  Deacon  Mather’s  parlor.  They 
had  all  attended  both  morning  and  afternoon  service,  and 
were  now  seated  near  those  pleasant  open  windows,  not  for 
repose  and  quiet  social  enjoyment ;  not  to  look  forth  and 
read  the  most  ancient  Evangel  of  God’s  love  in  the  fair 
book  of  nature  ;  not  to  behold  4  the  beauty  of  His  holiness’ 
in  the  nodding  flowers  and  swaying  boughs  and  bending 
grass,  in  the  glancing  waves  at  play  among  the  reeds,  and 
in  the  sunset  glories  flooding  all  the  western  hills.  No, 
each  one  sat  with  a  serious  Sunday  face,  and  with  a  Sunday 
book  in  hand.  The  Deacon  held  4  Scott’s  Family  Bible,’ 
open  at  Leviticus.  Mrs.  Mather  read  4  Edwards  on  the 
Affections,’  and  James  frowned  over  4  Fox’s  Book  of  Mar¬ 
tyrs,’  while  Walter  and  Effie,  sitting  together,  on  a  sofa, 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


73 


nearest  the  windows,  held  before  their  tired  eyes  the  ‘  West¬ 
minster  Catechism.’  To  appearance  they  were  puzzling 
their  young  brains  over  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  but 
probably  they  thought  little  of  the  theological  bearing  of 
the  dry  hard  text  which  they  were  required  to  repeat  ver¬ 
batim  et  literatim .  There  was  in  the  air  of  these  children 
an  evident  restlessness,  though  they  dared  make  no  audible 
manifestation  of  discontent.  When  a  light,  fresh  breeze 
came  hurrying  in  and  irreverently  rustled  and  turned  the 
grave  leaves  of  their  Catechism  ;  when  the  shadow  of  a 
swaying  bough  fell  on  the  page  ;  when  the  robin  lit.  on  a 
slender  spray,  which  bent  and  trembled  more  to  the  strong 
gushes  of  his  music  than  beneath  his  slight  weight,  as  he 
poured  forth  his  unconscious  praise  to  Him  who  had  guided 
his  lone  flight  through  pathless  skies  back  to  his  northern 
home,  and  there  called  forth  the  young  leaves  again  to 
shield  his  nest ;  when  the  sound  of  the  rivulet  came  to 
their  eyes,  laughing  low,  as  though  half  afraid  of  breaking 
the  still  Puritan  Sabbath  ;  then  would  the  cheeks  of  the 
children  flush  and  their  frames  quiver  with  impatience  to 
be  out  amid  those  airs  of  freedom  and  life,  amid  all  those 
sights  and  sounds  of  beauty  and  joy. 

The  day  had  seemed  unusually  long,  even  for  a  Sabbath, 
for  the  night  before  they  had  been  sent  to  bed  early,  and 
under  a  cloud,  for  having  been  caught  at  play  in  the 
orchard,  a  full  half  hour  after  sunset.  Now,  ever  and 
anon  they  would  send  eager  looks  out  toward  the  west, 
to  see  if  that  slow,  tiresome  sun  was  not  setting,  and  Sun¬ 
day,  with  its  wearisome  duties  and  dull  solemnities,  coming 
to  an  end  at  last. 

At  fourteen,  Effle  Mather  was  an  interesting  and  a  strik- 
ing,  but  scarcely  a  lovable  girl,  though  herself  of  great 
capacities  for  loving.  Pride,  and  will,  and  passionateness, 
so  far  from  having  been  subdued  by  Puritanical  rule,  had 
been  fixed  and  strengthened  in  her  nature. 

Hers  was  a  strong,  rather  than  a  fine  cast  of  mind ;  — 

7 


74 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


her  intellect  was  inquiring  and  daring,  rather  than  trusting 
and  reverential.  She  was  a  person  of  many  moods, —  at 
one  time  prudent  and  thoughtful  to  seriousness  —  at  another 
wild,  defiant  and  reckless.  Between  her  father  and  herself 
there  was  a  natural  and  unceasing  antagonism,  displayed 
on  the  one  hand  in  unreasonable  requirements  and  restric¬ 
tions,  and  on  the  other  in  the  quick  curl  of  the  scornful  lip, 
the  indignant  flash  of  the  eye,  the  heaviness  of  the  unwil¬ 
ling  step  —  in  all  the  ungraciousness  of  a  forced  and  soul¬ 
less  obedience.  Between  herself  and  her  eldest  brother 
there  was  also  little  of  harmony.  He  had  about  him  that 
cold  imperiousness,  that  imperturbable  calmness,  so  in¬ 
tensely  irritating  to  a  passionate  nature.  But  her  mother 
and  her  brother  Walter  she  loved  idolatrously,  and  to  them 
she  was  ever  generous  and  gentle,  and  yielding.  She  early 
sought  to  share  in  the  domestic  cares  and  labors  of  this  mild 
and  saddened  mother,  and  to  cheer  and  comfort  her  in  her 
hours  of  discouragement  and  unhappiness  ;  and  ever  ready 
to  laugh,  or  weep  with  this  brave  and  handsome  brother,  to 
favor  his  plans  for  pleasure,  and  conceal  his  faults  and 
transgressions. 

James  Mather,  who  had  neither  the  looks,  nor  the  tastes, 
the  follies,  nor  the  virtues  of  the  boy,  was  ever  leagued 
with  his  father  against  his  idle,  school-hating,  hunting  and 
fishing  brother,  and  his  pert,  passionate,  and  romping  sister ; 
and  as  a  natural  consequence,  a  defensive  alliance  was 
formed  by  the  two  culprits,  against  the  common  enemy. 
As  a  natural  consequence,  they  became  adepts  in  the  art  of 
concealment,  in  acting  falsehoods,  while  strangely  enough 
they  were  too  brave  and  conscientious  to  utter  an  untruth  on 
any  occasion. 

Effie  had  naturally  a  great  fondness  for  poetry  and  ro¬ 
mance  ;  but  her  father’s  express  prohibition  limited  her 
reading  to  the  Bible,  Pilgrim’s  Progress,  Scott  (Thomas), 
Edwards,  Doddridge,  Watts,  Mrs.  Rowe,  Young’s  Night 
Thoughts,  Ccelebs  in  Search  of  a  Wife,  The  Triumphs  of 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


75 


Temper,  Rasselas,  Paradise  Lost,  PollokV  Course  of  Time, 
and  a  choice  few  biographical  and  historical  works.  O  le 
day,  when  our  heroine  was  just  in  her  teens,  in  searching 
through  an  old  trunk  of  her  mother’s,  she  came  across  an 
odd  volume  of  Shakspeare.  This  proved  to  her  an  inesti¬ 
mable  treasure  ;  it  stirred  her  heart  with  strange,  bewildering 
emotions,  and  filled  her  brain  with  ‘  charmed  singing,’ 
new  imaginings,  and  visions  of  love  and  beauty.  One 
dreary,  blustering  afternoon  in  midwinter,  she  sat  in  a 
comfortable  arm-chair,  before  a  blazing  fire,  reading  Mid¬ 
summer  Night’s  Dream,  —  so  lost  in  its  fairy  enchantment, 
so  lapped  in  the  Elysium  of  fancy  and  poetry,  that  she  did 
not  remark  the  opening  of  the  door,  did  not  hear  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  footsteps.  Her  father  stood  over  her.  He  read 
a  few  lines  of  the  book  before  him,  the  book  of  plays  and 
abominations,  then  suddenly  caught  and  flung  it  into  the 
midst  of  the  fire.  With  a  shriek  of  dismay,  Effie  sprang 
forward  to  rescue  her  treasure, 'but  a  heavy  hand  was  laid 
on  her  shoulder,  she  was  thrust  back  into  her  seat,  sternly 
reprimanded,  and  forbidden  to  take  a  book  of  that  descrip¬ 
tion  into  her  hand  again. 

Effie  went  with  this  new  grievance  to  her  brother  Walter, 
who  sympathized  with  her  to  that  extent,  that  the  night 
following  he  brought  to  her  chamber  a  complete  edition  of 
Shakspeare,  borrowed  from  a  village  friend.  In  this  un¬ 
lawful  way,  Burns,  and  Pope,  and  Scott,  and  Byron,  with 
innumerable  old  novels  and  plays,  were  procured  and 
stealthily  read  in  that  little  chamber.  In  after  years,  Effie 
was  heard  to  say  that  never  had  she  read  with  such  utter 
absorption,  such  an  intensity  of  interest,  such  heart-leaps 
of  excitement,  such  a  terrible  zest,  as  at  that  season,  pain¬ 
fully  conscious  as  she  was  of  transgression,  and  always 
fearful  of  detection.  In  return  for  Walter’s  considerate 
kindness,  Effie  allowed  him  to  come  to  her  chamber,  where 
his  father  and  brother  seldom  intruded,  and  there  to  smoke 
as  many  forbidden  cigars  as  suited  his  adolescent  aspira¬ 
tions. 


76 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


When  James  Malher  was  eighteen,  he  entered  college  at 
New  Haven,  with  a  view  to  the  ministry.  Walter  had  no 
better  prospects  before  him  than  a  life  behind  the  counter, 
a  business  peculiarly  unsuited  to  his  roving,  adventurous 
spirit.  He  once  asked  his  father  to  procure  for  him  a 
midshipman’s  warrant,  through  the  influence  of  a  friend  at 
Washington  ;  but  his  proposition  was  met  with  such  a  storm 
of  anger  and  reproof  that  he  never  dared  to  renew  it,  but 
faithfully  strove  to  content  himself  with  the  occupation 
assigned  to  him. 

The  winter  that.  Walter  was  seventeen,  it  happened  that  a 

French  exile  established  a  dancing  school  at  L- - ,  which 

was  very  well  supported  by  the  world’s  people,  to  the  great 
scandal  of  the  more  godly.  Walter  knew  his  father  too 
well  to  ask  his  permission  to  attend  this,  but  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  to  become  clandestinely  a  pupil  of  Mods. 
Durande.  It  chanced  that  the  window  of  his  chamber 
opened  on  a  piazza,  from  whence  he  could  easily  descend 
by  sliding  down  one  of  the  pillars,  which  he  had  but  to 
climb  on  his  return.  So,  night  after  night,  when  his  parents 
believed  him  keeping  remarkably  good  hours,  and  sound 
asleep  in  his  chamber  overhead,  he  was  keeping  remarkably 
good  time  to  the  profane  music  of  the  profane,  st  of  instru¬ 
ments,  and  becoming  quite  an  fait  of  the  chasse  and 
balance ,  dos-a-dos ,  chaine  Anglaise ,  &c.  It  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say,  that  Eflie  from  the  first  aided  and  abet¬ 
ted  in  this  pleasant  piece  of  wickedness,  and  that  she  was 
herself  instructed  by  brief  morning  lessons  in  the  upper 
hall,  or  in  her  own  room,  in  all  that  her  brother  had  ac¬ 
quired  in  his  evening’s  practice.  All  went  smoothly  for  a 
month  or  two,  when,  a  zealous  brother  in  the  church  visited 
Deacon  Mather,  expressly  to  warn  him  respecting  his  god¬ 
less  son.  It  was  about  ten  o’clock  at  night  when  he  came 
to  discharge  this  Christian  duty,  so  painful  to  a  pious  heart. 
Speechless  with  astonishment,  Deacon  Mather  hurried  up  to 
Walter’s  room,  and  not  finding  him  there,  caught  his  hat, 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


77 


and,  pale  with  1  holy  rage,’  strode  down  the  street  to  the 
dancing  saloon.  When  his  father  entered,  Walter  had  just 
handed  up  to  her  place  at  the  head  of  the  set,  a  pretty,  blue¬ 
eyed  young  girl,  of  whom  he  had  always  been  very  fond  ; 
he  was  bending  down  to  whisper  in  her  ear  some  boyish 
compliment,  when  a  stern  hand  was  laid  on  his  shoulder, 
and  he  was  dragged  ignominiously  from  the  room. 

That  night,  Effie  was  waked  from  her  first  slumber  by 
what  seemed  to  her  the  sound  of  blows,  coming  up  from 
the  room  beneath,  but  as  she  did  not  hear  Walter’s  voice, 
nor  any  groan,  or  outcry,  she  thought  she  had  been  mis¬ 
taken.  She  did  not  yet  know  her  brother.  Within  a  half 
hour  he  came  to  her  chamber,  with  a  tearless  face,  but  pale, 
even  to  the  lips,  and  older  looking  by  years,  than  she  had 
ever  seen  him.  Rapidly,  but  calmly,  he  told  her  the  story 
of  the  night’s  outrage  and  disgrace  ;  then,  setting  down  his 
lamp,  he  bared  his  arms  and  shoulders,  and  showed  the  long 
red  marks  of  the  rod.  Across  his  right  hand  had  fallen  the 
most  severe  stroke,  and  from  the  cruel  wale  the  blood  was 
still  oozing  slowly.  Holding  this  up  to  the  light,  Walter 
said  in  a  tone  of  bitter,  concentrated  passion  — ‘  When  I 
forget  that  blow,  Effie,  may  God  forget  me  !  ’ 

After  a  pause,  while  his  sister  wept  silently,  Walter 
resumed  in  a  hoarse,  abrupt  voice,  ‘  And  now,  Effie,  I  must 
bid  you  goodbye  —  I  am  going  away  —  going  to-night  — 
my  valise  is  already  packed  —  I  have  a  little  money,  and 
shall  be  miles  from  home  before  morning.’  ‘  Going  away  !  ’ 
cried  Effie,  —  ‘Where?’  ‘Why,  first,  to  uncle  John’s  in 
New  York.  He  is  rich,  you  know,  and  perhaps  he  will 
give  me  employment.  Anyhow,  I  can  find  some  way  to 
live.  I  should  die  here  —  my  heart  would  choke  me,  it  is 
so  big  and  hot  with  shame  and  anger.  Say  good-bye  for 
me  to  mother  —  I  could  not  bear  to  part  with  her  —  give  her 
my  dearest  love  —  and  —  and,  Effie,  ask  her  to  pray  for  me .’ 
Then,  catching  his  sister  to  his  heart,  he  kissed  her  many 
times,  and  the  first  tears  he  had  shed  lay  on  her  cheek  when 

7# 


78 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


he  was  gone.  About  midnight  Effie  heard  him  softly  open 
his  window,  step  out  on  the  piazza,  and  slide  ciown  the 
pillar.  She  slipped  out  of  bed,  stole  to  the  window  and 
looked  down.  It  was  a  very  bright  night  and  the  earth  was 
covered  with  snow  ;  so  she  saw  him  distinctly  passing 
through  the  garden,  carrying  his  valise  on  his  shoulder.  At 
the  gate  he  paused,  and  looked  back  at  the  house  and  ovei 
the  grounds  —  then  turned  and  ran  swiftly  down  the  road. 
Ah,  how  often  in  after  years,  sleeping  and  waking,  did  Effie 
see  her  brother  as  she  saw  him  then  ! 

The  next  morning,  as  soon  as  the  flight  of  Walter  was 
known,  Effie  was  questioned  concerning  it;  but  neither  the 
violent  threats  of  her  father,  nor  the  gentle  persuasions  ot 
her  mother,  could  wring  a  word  from  her  lips,  and  it  was 
not  until  she  believed  her  brother  safe  from  immediate 
pursuit  that  she  revealed  all,  and  gave  his  last  message  to 
her  weeping  mother. 

Walter  arrived  safely  at  New  York,  but,  coming  under 
such  suspicious  circumstances,  was  not  received  by  his 
wealthy  relatives  with  a  vjery  flattering  cordiality.  Think¬ 
ing,  from  what  his  uncle  said,  that  he  was  about  to  return 
him  to  his  father,  under  a  safe  escort,  he  watched  his 
opportunity,  and  escaped  from  the  house,  early  one  morning, 
and,  valise  in  hand,  went  down  to  the  wharf,  where  finding 
a  vessel  which  was  to  sail  for  Europe  that  day,  he  bound 
himself  to  its  master,  to  serve  for  a  year,  before  the  mast. 
He  had  only  time  to  write  a  line  to  his  sister,  telling  her 
that  he  was  going  to  sea,  but  not  giving  the  name  of  the 
ship. 

James  Mather  wrote  to  his  father,  on  this  event,  after 
this  wise  :  — 

4 1  would  advise  you,  my  dear  sir,  to  make  no  inquiries 
concerning  the  perverse  youth.  Leave  him  to  himself,  and 
he  will  soon  return,  like  the  prodigal  son,  to  his  father’s 
house,  sorrowing.’ 

And  now,  at  all  times,  Deacon  Mather’s  judgment 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


79 


coincided  with  that  of  his  eldest  son,  and  no  least  effort  was 
made  to  reclaim  the  wanderer. 

Three  or  four  times  during  the  next  eight  months,  Effie 
and  her  mother  received  letters  from  Walter.  These  were 
characterized  by  a  sort  of  forced  cheerfulness,  and  a  slight 
tone  of  bravado  little  deceptive  to  those  anxious,  loving 
hearts.  Then  came  a  long  silence,  and  then,  little  more 
than  a  year  from  the  time  of  Walter’s  leaving  home,  there 
came  a  brief  letter  which  I  will  lay  before  my  reader.  It 
was  addressed  to  Mr.  Mather,  and  ran  thus  : 

‘Mahike  Hospital,  Liverpool,  March  7th,  18 — . 

‘  My  Father  :  —  I  have  been  in  this  place  now  about  two 
months,  confined  by  a  sort  of  slow  fever,  brought  on  by  the 
hardships  and  exposure  I  have  been  called  to  endure  in  my 
sea-faring  life.  The  physicians  have  all  along  encouraged 
me,  and  have  even  now  some  hopes  of  my  recovery;  but  I 
know  that  I  shall  die,  and  that  soon.  I  feel  all  giving  out 
within  —  my  constitution,  which,  perhaps,  you  will  remem¬ 
ber  was  never  very  strong,  sinking  and  breaking  up.  I  have 
no  more  strength  nor  courage  —  I  have  no  life  left,  only  a 
little  breath. 

1  Father,  I  do  not  wish  to  give  you  pain,  but  there  are  a 
few  things  which  I  must  say  before  I  die,  even  though  they 
may  seem  like  reproaches.  I  never  meant  to  be  a  bad  son 
to  you,  but  you  were  always  too  stern,  and  harsh,  and 
unsympathizing,  toward  me.  It  was  this  severity  which 
rendered  me  disobedient  and  disingenuous  —  which  has 
crushed  my  pride  and  broken  my  heart.  Had  you  dealt 
less  hardly  by  me,  I  might  now  have  been  at  home,  happy 
and  respectable,  and  well,  instead  of  being  what  I  am,  a 
poor  sailor-boy,  dying  in  a  foreign  hospital,  with  no  mother 
or  sister  to  nurse,  or  comfort  me,  to  wipe  away  the  cold 
sweat  which  even  now  lies  thick  upon  my  forehead.  Oh, 
father,  it  is  hard  to  die  alone  !  But  tell  mother  that  I  put 
my  trust  in  Jesus,  and  try  to  pray.  And  tell  her  that  the 


80 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


nurses  here  are  very  good  and  attentive,  and  one  of  the 
physicians,  Dr.  Euston,  exceedingly  kind.  He  will  take 
charge  of  this  letter,  and  send  it  when  I  am  gone.  En- 
closed  I  send  mother  some  locks  of  my  hair.  Tell  her  that 
I  cut  them  from  above  my  temples  —  the  very  locks  she  has 
brushed  and  curled  so  often. 

4 1  do  not  feel  conscious,  father,  of  having  done  you 
wrong,  but  if  I  have  been  too  unfilial,  and  proud,  and  pas¬ 
sionate,  surely  great  is  my  punishment.  But  let  us  forgive 
one  another,  and  may  God  forgive  us  all !  I  would  part  in 
peace  with  brother  James.  Were  he  here  now,  I  would 
grasp  his  hand  with  that  kindly  affection  in  which  he  nevei 
seemed  to  believe. 

‘  Give  my  dear  last  love  to  mother  and  Effie,  and  tell 
them  they  cannot  know  how  much  stronger,  and  deeper, 
and  more  unspeakably  tender,  is  this  dying  love  than  any 

that  the  happy  and  healthful  may  feel. 

1  Farewell. 

‘  Walter.’ 

Accompanying  this  letter  was  a  kindly  note  from  Dr. 
Euston,  stating  that  poor  Walter  died  on  the  l*2th  of  March. 

When  Deacon  Mather  had  read  that  letter  he  let  it  fall  on 
the  floor  beside  him,  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands, 
saying  not  a  word.  His  wife  took  it  up,  and  she  and  Effie 
read  it  as  best  they  could.  In  the  first  wild  tempest  of 
sorrow  which  swept  over  them,  they  scarcely  noted  the 
father’s  presence  or  manner,  but  that  night,  as  Effie  watched 
by  her  poor  mother,  who  was  fainting  and  ill,  she  heard  him 
walking,  hour  after  hour,  up  and  down  the  hall  without, 
groaning  heavily.  The  next  morning,  however,  he  was 
calm,  though  he  looked  paler  and  older  than  usual,  and 
Effie  noticed  that  the  hand  he  extended  to  take  his  coffee 
trembled  much. 

Walter,  without  intending  it,  had  terribly  avenged  him¬ 
self.  His  vanquished  spirit,  in  taking  flight,  had  shot  a 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


81 


Parthian  arrow  which  pierced  to  the  heart  of  his  father. 
But  the  stern  man  covered  the  wound,  and  none  saw  the 
bleeding. 


CHAPTER  II. 

‘Votary  of  doubt !  then  join  the  festal  throng, 

Bask  in  the  sun-beam,  listen  to  the  song, 

Spread  the  rich  board,  and  fill  the  wine-cup  high, 

And  bind  the  wreath,  ere  yet  the  roses  die  !  ’  —  Hemans. 

‘  Father  in  Heaven  !  Thou,  only  Thou  cans’t  sound 
The  heart’s  great  deeps,  with  floods  of  anguish  filled, 

For  human  life  too  fearfully  profound. 

Therefore,  forgive,  oh  Father,  if  thy  child, 

Rocked  on  its  heaving  darkness,  hath  grown  wild, 

And  sinned  in  her  despair  !  ’  —  Hemans. 

Some  years  had  passed  by.  Deacon  Mather,  who  had 
been  for  a  time  somewhat  softened  by  his  son’s  death,  had 
regained  all  his  former  sternness ;  Mrs.  Mather  had  grown 
calm  and  resigned,  James  Mather  was  settled  in  the  minis- 
try,  and  Effie  was  in  love,  actually  engaged,  though  without 
the  consent  or  knowledge  of  her  parents. 

For  all  our  heroine’s  ambition  and  wild  untamable  spirit, 
her  choice  was  no  other  than  a  poor  young  clergyman,  the 
lately  appointed  pastor  of  a  small  congregation  in  her  native 
place  —  a  man  of  much  talent  and  elegant  person  indeed, 
but  chiefly  distinguished  for  his  bold  and  earnest  preaching 
of  a  liberal  faith  ;  the  pure  gospel  of  love  ;  for  the  cheer¬ 
fulness  ot  his  philosophy,  and  the  active  benevolence  of  his 
life. 

Effle,  with  all  her  faults,  had  at  times  aspirations  pain- 
lully  intense  after  a  larger  and  holier  life,  a  life  of  the 
intellect  and  the  affections,  and  longings  for  assurance  and 
peace.  But  she  ever  felt  the  need  of  some  stronger  spirit 
to  strengthen  and  support  her  in  the  hard  ascending  path  of 
self-sacrifice  and  duty,  of  a  heart  whose  love  would  shed 


82 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


> 

brightness  upon  it,  and  cause  cheering  flowers  to  spring 
from  rocky  places. 

So  it  was  that  she  scarcely  waited  to  be  assured  that  she 
was  loved  by  Charles  Leonard  ere  she  let  her  heart  go  out 
toward  him,  as  the  one,  the  only  one  who  could  turn  her 
from  the  false  and  frivolous,  to  a  life  of  beneficent  action, 

worthy  and  true  and  tranquilly  happy. 

Contrary  to  the  wishes  and  advice  Of  her  lovei,  Eflie, 
knowing  her  fathers  aristocratic  and  religious  piejudices, 
delayed  acquainting  him  with  her  engagement.  She  had 
met  Mr.  Leonard  at  the  house  of  a  common  friend,  where 
they  both  spent  much  time.  Seeing  that  Deacon  Mather 
had  little  respect  for  his  liberal  and  heterodox  sentiments, 
and  less  partiality  for  him  personally,  the  young  clergyman 
seldom  visited  at  his  house. 

Matters  were  in  this  state  when  the  Hev.  James  Mather 
came  home  for  a  briqf  visit.  It  happened  that  one  evening, 
as  this  good  man  was  walking  in  a  grove  near  his  father’s 
place,  engaged  in  devout  meditations  probably,  he  saw 
before  him  Eflie  and  Mr.  Leonard,  slowly  strolling  along 
and  talking  most  earnestly.  He  drew  near,  and  overheard 
(accidentally,  of  course,)  part  of  a  conversation  which  left 
him  no  doubt  of  the  melancholy  state  of  affairs.  Then 
moved  by  imperative  duty,  he  suddenly  caught  the  arm  of 
his  perverse  sister,  drew  it  within  his  own,  rudely  separating 
her  from  her  companion,  and  hurried  her  home. 

Here  followed  a  scene.  Eflie  was  accused  before  hei 
father  by  her  brother  —  upbraided,  reproved  and  warned  by 
'both.  But  she  stood  up  bravely  against  them,  and  told 
‘  some  certain  truths,’  in  language  little  remarkable  for 
mildness  or  humility ;  she  boldly  asserted  her  indepen¬ 
dence  and  avowed  her  resolution  to  marry  the  man  of  her 
choice,  though  he  were  friendless  and  unknown,  poor  and 
heretical. 

The  next  morning  the  fair  rebel  found  the  door  of  her 
chamber  locked  on  the  outside ;  her  breakfast  was  sent  up 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


83 


to  her,  and  she  was  told  that  she  should  not  leave  the  room 
until  she  had  given  up  her  will,  and  resigned  herself  to  the 
decision  of  her  father.  Effie  seemed  no  wise  frightened  ; 
she  even  laughed  lightly  at  this  threat,  and  bore  herself 
bravely  for  some  days.  Finally,  becoming  impatient  to 
hear  from  Mr.  Leonard,  she  wrote  to  him,  confiding  her 
letter  with  many  earnest  injunctions  to  a  servant  girl,  who 
promised  faithfully  to  deliver  it  into  his  own  hands,  but  who 
having  had  previous  instructions,  proved  false,  and  conveyed 
it  to  her  master.  On  the  other  hand,  the  letters  of  Mr. 
Leonard  were  suppressed,  and  without  a  word  of  explana¬ 
tion,  all  intercourse  between  the  lovers  effectually  broken 
off.  Effie  stood  out  firmly  for  nearly  a  month,  but  at  last, 
wearied  by  the  entreaties  of  her  mother  and  the  ceaseless 
reproaches  of  her  father,  jealous  and  half  maddened  at 
hearing  no  word  from  her  lover,  she  yielded,  and  wrote 
him  a  cold  letter  of  dismissal.  She  received  a  reply  that 
afternoon ;  it  was  not  explanatory,  scarcely  regretful ;  it 
was  a  brief  and  dignified,  yet  a  kindly  letter  of  farewell. 
Thus  was  the  sacrifice  consummated. 

The  next  morning  the  door  of  Effie’s  chamber  was 
thrown  open,  and  she  was  restored  to  her  old  freedom. 
For  a  day  or  two,  she  walked  all  through  the  house  and 
garden  in  a  sort  of  listless  restlessness,  and  then  took  to  her 
bed,  ill  of  a  fever.  So  ill  was  she  at  one  time,  that  her 
father,  utterly  despairing  of  her  life,  consented  to  send  for 
Mr.  Leonard,  for  whom  she  called  constantly  and  most 
piteously  in  her  delirium.  But  the  young  clergyman  had 
left  town  a  week  before,  and  gone  no  one  knew  whither. 
Yet  Effie’s  hour  was  not  come.  It  was  not  hers  to  close 
her  tired  eyes  on  life  so  early  in  the  day.  Slowly  and  it 
seemed  unwillingly  she  arose  from  the  bed  of  pain  whereon 
grief  and  despair  had  laid  her. 

As  soon  as  she  was  sufficiently  restored  to  travel,  her 
father  took  her  to  New  York,  where  he  left  her  to  pass  the 
winter  with  his  aristocratic  relations. 


84 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


\ 


Here  a  new  world  opened  before  Effie.  Though  she 
had  felt  all  soul-life  crushed  out  of  her  by  her  late  sorrow, 
she  found  that  there  was  another  life  left  her,  one  infinitely 
poorer  and  narrower,  yet  possessing  some  fascination  for 
one  of  her  variable  nature ;  a  life  of  ambition,  excitement 
and  pleasure  ;  and  into  this  she  threw  herself  with  heartless 
abandon.  From  the  first,  she  saw  herself  an  object  of  great 
admiration,  and  this  was  pleasant.  She  had  naturally  fine 
taste,  she  rapidly  caught  ideas  of  style  and  fashion,  and  by 
the  unusual  liberality  of  her  father,  and  the  kindness  of  her 
city  friends,  she  was  able  to  dress  with  richness  and  ele¬ 
gance  as  became  her  brilliant  beauty  and  the  grace  and 
noble  proportions  of  her  figure. 

Among  her  many  suitors,  there  was  one  whom  Effie 
regarded  from  the  first  with  admiring  respect.  This  was 
Mr.  Warren,  a  merchant  of  princely  fortune,  and  of  dis¬ 
tinguished  family,  a  native  of  her  own  State,  though  for 
some  years  past  he  had  resided  in  Paris,  and  was  now  only 
visiting  in  New  York.  He  possessed  a  cultured,  rather 
than  a  great  intellect,  varied  accomplishments,  much  beauty 
of  person,  graceful  manners,  and  was  amiable  and  honor¬ 
able  in  character. 

Deacon  Mather  sat  by  his  fireside,  with  a  peculiarly  proud 
and  pleased  expression  spread  over  his  countenance,  holding 
an  open  letter  in  his  hand,  from  which  he  had  just  been 
reading  to  his  gentle  wife. 

4  And  so,  Mr.  Mather,  this  suitor  of  our  Effie  is  wealthy.’ 

4  Immensely  so,  and  bearing  one  of  the  oldest  and  most 
honorable  names  in  the  State.’ 

‘  Do  you  know  what  his  religious  opinions  are  ?  ’ 

4  His  is  a  good  orthodox  family,  of  Puritan  descent, 
madam.’ 

Effie  was  married  to  a  man  of  whom  she  was  proud,  to 
whom  she  gave  her  wreck  of  a  heart,  and  who  loved  her 
with  sincerity  and  generous  devotion. 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


85 


Soon  after  their  marriage,  Mr.  Warren  and  his  beautiful 
bride  sailed  for  France,  where  they  intended  to  reside  for 
some  years.  During  the  voyage,  Effie  suffered  much  from 
sea-sickness,  and  found  in  her  husband  the  tenderest  and 
most  unwearied  of  nurses.  One  afternoon,  he  was  sitting 
by  her  berth,  while  she  slept,  and  was  reading.  Effie 
awoke  and  regarded  him  for  some  moments  in  silence,  then 
asked  languidly,  4  What  book  is  that  you  read,  Henry  !  ’ 

‘  A  work  by  Voltaire,  my  love.’ 

4  Voltaire  !  ’  cried  Effie,  in  dismay  — 4  why,  he  is  an 
infidel  writer,  is  he  not  ?  ’ 

4  So  he  is  called  —  he  certainly  puts  small  faith  in  the 
traditions  and  superstitions  of  Christianity.’ 

Startled  and  agitated,  Effie  looked  her  husband  earnestly 
in  the  face,  and  asked, 

4  Are  you  an  Atheist  ?  ’ 

4  Why,  my  love,  I  hardly  know  what  I  am.  I  cannot  call 
myself  a  believer,  yet  I  have  not  made  up  my  mind  fully 
to  reject  all  ideas  of  religion.  I  acknowledge  that  I  am 
very  skeptical,  but  I  am  truly  sorry  if  my  avowal  gives  you 
any  pain.’ 

Effie  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  replied  —  4  No,  I  am 
glad  you  have  told  me  this.  I  like  your  frankness  and 
independence.  You  do  right  to  investigate  and  explore  for 
yourself ;  only  now  let  us  examine  this  subject  together.’ 

From  this  time,  while  they  remained  on  shipboard,  Vol¬ 
taire  and  Rousseau,  Godwin  and  Shelley,  were  their  daily 
companions,  and  very  soon  their  bold  speculations  and 
subtle  sophistries,  their  sarcasms  and  denunciations,  exer¬ 
cised  over  Effie’s  unsettled  mind  and  morbid  feelings  a 
terrible  fascination.  Unconsciously  she  exulted  at  every 
stout  blow  of  argument,  or  keen  shaft  of  satire  aimed  at 
that  theology  whose  spirit  she  believed  had  oppressed  her 
childhood,  darkened  her  youth,  and  crushed  her  woman’s 
heart,  as  in  an  iron  gauntlet.  On  reaching  Paris  she  dili¬ 
gently  applied  herself  to  acquire  a  better  knowledge  of  the 

8 


l 


86 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


language,  that  she  might  be  able  to  study  the  great  French 
philosophers  in  the  original.  Her  interest  never  slackened 
—  she  read,  and  conversed  and  inquired  as  eagerly  as  ever 
a  troubled  soul  sought  for  Christian  truth,  till  she  felt  herself 
altogether  assured  —  till  Effie,  the  Puritan’s  daughter,  was 
an  atheist ! 

She  exulted  and  gloried  in  her  new  faith,  or,  rather,  want 
0f  faith  —  she  was  an  enthusiast,  a  zealot  in  unbelief.  She 
strengthened  and  confirmed  her  husband  and  many  others 
in  error,  by  her  rare  eloquence,  her  wit,  and  her  daring, 
impetuous  spirit.  She  was  ever  surrounded  in  society  by  a 
circle  of  philosophers,  wits,  poets  and  orators,  and  her 
ambition  was  gratified  by  the  homage  which  her  intellect 
and  beauty  commanded.  As  all  belief  in  a  future  life 
became  to  her  a  dream  of  the  past,  a  mere  child’s  fable, 
she  grew  more  eager  for  the  honors  and  pleasures  of  this. 
Her  love  of  admiration  became  a  passion  ;  she  sought  to 
perfect  herself  in  brilliant  accomplishments,  and  made  an 
absolute  study  of  dress,  and  equipage,  and  luxurious  living. 
She  was  a  French  woman  in  all  save  amours  ;  for  these 
she  was  too  cold  and  proud.  She  honored  her  husband, 
though  she  loved  him  not,  and  heard  with  scorn,  or  utter 
indifference  the  sentimentalities  and  dramatic  appeals  of 
her  admirers. 

Thus  lived  Effie  Warren  through  five  years,  in  a  giddy 
whirl  of  excitement  and  dissipation,  and  then,  at  the  urgent 
entreaty  of  her  husband,  returned  with  him  to  America  — 
returned  with  faded  beauty,  and  broken  health,  but  most  ill 
with  the  soul-siqkness  of  ennui. 

-  3 

Late  one  Saturday  afternoon,  in  September,  in  a  small 

New  England  village,  some  twenty  miles  from  L - ,  a 

group  was  gathered  round  an  elegant  travelling  carriage 
which  had  broken  an  axle  and  was  arrested  in  the  midst  of 
the  street.  It  was  near  sunset,  and  remembering  their 
whereabouts,  the  travellers  saw  at  once  the  impossibility  of 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


87 


having  their  carriage  repaired  until  the  following  Monday. 
Mr.  Warren  handed  out  his  pale  and  languid  wife,  who,  on 
her  part,  was  dismayed  at  the  prospect  of  spending  a  New 
England  Sabbath  at  a  low  village  inn,  and,  supporting  her 
tenderly,  walked  up  the  elm-shaded  street,  —  his  servants 
following  with  the  baggage. 

On  the  way,  Mr.  Warren  remarked  a  remarkably  noble¬ 
looking  young  man  approaching,  with  a  lady  leaning  on 
his  arm.  Suddenly  Effie  started  and  uttered  an  exclamation 
peculiarly  French.  The  stranger,  in  passing,  met  her  eye, 
paused  and  gazed  at  her  with  a  heart-gaze  which  pierced 
through  splendid  dress  and  foreign  manner,  and  faded 
beauty,  and  changed  expression,  and  exclaimed,  4  Effie 
Mather  !  ’  4  Charles  Leonard  !  ’  said  Effie,  extending  her 
hand,  with  a  bright  smile,  a  smile  of  other  days.  Then 
followed  introductions  of  Mr.  Warren  and  Mrs.  Leonard  ; 
then  came  earnest  proffers  from  the  young  clergyman  and 
his  wife  of  the  hospitalities  of  their  cottage  home.  These 
invitations  were  not  refused  after  the  travellers  had  caught 
sight  of  the  humble  village  inn,  —  and  thus  it  was  that  Effie 
found  herself  the  guest  of  her  old  suitor  —  her  only  love. 

The  pleasant  parsonage  was  situated  a  little  out  of  the 
village,  on  the  banks  of  a  small  stream,  and  almost  buried 
in  trees  and  vines.  The  parlor,  into  which  the  guests  were 
shown,  was  simply  furnished,  but  a  piano  and  a  guitar,  a 
few  fine  pictures,  some  pretty  vases  and  statuettes,  and  a 
profusion  of  flowers,  gave  to  it  an  air  of  grace  and  artistic 
elegance. 

Effie  saw  with  some  surprise  that  the  wife  of  Mr.  Leonard 
was  not  altogether  unlike  herself.  There  was  much  the 
same  style  of  face,  but  more  delicacy  of  form  and  more 
softness  of  manner. 

Mrs.  Leonard  had  one  child,  an  infant  daughter,  who  was 
brought  into  the  parlor  in  the  course  of  the  evening. 

4  What  do  you  call  your  babe  ?  ’  asked  Effie,  smiling  softly 
at  the  beauty  of  the  child.  4  Charles  named  her  Effie,’ 
replied  Mrs.  Leonard. 


88 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Effie  looked  involuntarily  and  half  inquiringly  up  into  the 
pleasant  eyes  of  the  father —  a  tide  of  sweet,  sad  emotion 
flooded  her  heart,  and  the  first  genuine  blush  of  feeling  she 
had  known  for  years  crimsoned  her  cheek. 

Ah,  had  Effie  herself  been  a  mother,  she  might  not  have 
been  so  lost  in  error.  1  Little  children  ’  in  their  love  and 
innocence  are  such  eloquent  preachers  of  the  Divine  Master 
who  blessed  them. 

The  evening  passed  agreeably  in  a  conversation  where 
Mr.  Leonard’s  intellectual  power,  purity  of  principle  and 
warmth  of  feeling,  the  culture  and  affability  of  Warren,  the 
refinement  and  varied  acquirements  of  Effie,  and  the  faith 
and  beautiful  enthusiasm  of  Emily,  were  alike  unconsciously 
displayed. 

The  travellers,  somewhat  fatigued,  retired  early.  Mr. 
Warren  seemed  to  fall  asleep  at  once,  but  Effie  was  restless, 
was  haunted  by  mournful  memories  and  disturbed  by  pas¬ 
sionate  regrets.  She  had  thought  all  the  older  emotions  of 
love  and  tenderness  had  long  ago  perished  and  been  buried 
deep  beneath  pride  and  philosophy,  ambition  and  pleasure  — 
but  now  her  heart  seemed  giving  up  its  dead. 

Suddenly  a  soft,  sweet  strain  of  melody  rose  from  the 
room  beneath.  It  was  Emily,  singing  her  evening  hymn. 
Then  followed  the  deep,  earnest  tones  of  the  young  minis¬ 
ter,  in  the  evening  prayer.  Effie  raised  her  head  and 
listened,  and  though  she  could  hear  no  words  distinctly,  that 
fervent  voice  sank  into  her  soul,  and  when  it  ceased,  she 
buried  her  face  in  the  pillow  and  wept  as  she  had  not  wept 
for  years.  She  had  abjured,  as  an  oppression  and  a  super¬ 
stition,  the  holy  faith  made  vocal  in  that  hymn  —  she  had 
wholly  denied  the  God  and  Saviour  acknowledged  in  that 
prayer;  why  wept  she,  then,  till  far  into  the  night,  with  a 
fearful  sense  of  desolation  and  despair  ? 

The  day  following,  for  the  first  time  since  leaving  Amer¬ 
ica,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warren  found  themselves  in  a  Protestant 
church.  Mr.  Leonard  preached.  The  deep,  rich  tones  of 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


89 


his  voice  filled  the  house  like  the  notes  of  an  organ.  Ever, 
as  fell  from  his  lips  a  noble  sentiment,  or  a  divine  hope, 
Effie  would  look  on  the  countenance  of  the  young  wife  at 
her  side,  and  mark  it  kindle  with  a  quick  sympathy,  a  chas¬ 
tened  pride  and  love  pure  as  an  angel’s  —  till,  to  hide  her 
own  emotion,  she  was  forced  to  draw  closely  over  her  face 
the  thick  folds  of  her  costly  veil. 

Mr.  Leonard  had  only  morning  and  evening  service,  and 
in  the  afternoon,  accompanied  his  guests  in  a  stroll  along 
the  pleasant  banks  of  the  stream.  On  their  return,  Emily 
played  some  grand  pieces  from  Handel  and  Beethoven, 
very  finely  ;  but  Effie  ‘  did  not  play  sacred  music  well,’  she 
said.  The  next  morning,  however,  she  sat  down  and  played 
‘Von  Weber’s  Last  Waltz’  with  exquisite  feeling,  giving 
with  mournful  expression  — 

‘  The  cloud  of  sadness  in  a  heaven  of  beauty  — 

The  sob  of  anguish  in  a  heaven  of  sound.’ 

This  was  her  farewell. 

From  the  day  she  reached  her  father’s  house,  and  found 
herself  amid  old  scenes  and  associations,  Effie  became  more 
frail  and  spiritless.  Though  she  had  but  a  slight  cough,  she 
was  so  evidently  in  a  decline,  that  all  saw  she  would  not  be 
able  to  endure  a  winter  at  the  North.  She  yielded  a 
passive  consent  to  the  wish  of  her  husband  to  go  at  once  to 
the  South.  In  parting,  she  listlessly  took  the  hands  and  me¬ 
chanically  kissed  the  cheeks  of  her  father  and  brother,  but 
she  clung  long  about  the  neck  of  her  mother,  weeping. 
When  she  was  lifted  into  the  carriage,  she  sank  back  upon 
the  cushions,  and  closed  her  eyes,  and  thus  remained  till  far 
out  of  the  village. 

At  the  close  of  her  weary  journey,  Effie  found  herself  in 
a  fair  and  quiet  home,  surrounded  with  luxury  and  love¬ 
liness.  But  it  needed  more  than  the  ever-blooming  flowers, 
the  orange  groves  and  soft  airs  of  Florida,  to  give  strength 
to  that  exhausted  frame,  to  bind  up  that  broken  spirit ;  more 
8* 


90 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


than  all  the  kindly  ministrations  of  nature,  more  than  the 
daily  offering  of  a  great  love,  whose  very  devotion  seemed 
full  of  mute  reproach.  Effie’s  true  life  died  out  years 
before  ;  the  false  one  was  but  going  now. 

So  rapidly  she  failed,  that  ere  the  winter  had  passed,  she 
was  confined  almost  altogether  to  her  couch,  though  she  was 
carefully  and  elegantly  dressed  every  day. 

It  was  a  bright  morning  in  March.  The  night  previous 
Effie  had  suffered  much  from  a  hemorrhage  of  the  lungs, 
but  she  now  slept  quietly,  while  her  husband,  pale  and 
anxious,  watched  by  her  side.  Suddenly  she  awoke,  and 
Mr.  Warren  observed  a  strange  light  in  her  eye,  and  a 
strange  energy  in  her  voice,  as  she  desired  him  to  summon 
her  dressing-maid. 

After  ringing  for  Annette,  Mr.  Warren  left  the  chamber 
and  walked  up  and  down  the  piazza,  in  front  of  the  house, 
for  nearly  an  hour.  Then  he  was  recalled  to  the  sick-room, 
by  the  little  maid,  who  looked  troubled  when  she  gave  the 
message.  As  he  entered  the  chamber,  he  paused  in  aston¬ 
ishment  and  dismay.  There  sat  Effie,  in  an  elegant 
fauteuil ,  arrayed  as  for  a  ball,  ox  fete.  She  wore  her  most 
magnificent  court  dress,  of  gold-wrought  satin  and  richest 
lace.  On  her  brow  was  a  tiara  of  brilliants  ;  her  slender 
arms  and  fingers  and  her  sunken  neck  were  gleaming  with 
jewels.  She  sat  erect,  with  an  indescribable  air  of  pride 
and  defiance. 

4  Great  Heaven  !  Effie,  what  does  this  mean  ?  ’  cried 
Warren. 

1  It  means,  Henry,  that  this  is  a  great  day.  It  means 
that  I  have  made  myself  ready  to  receive  my  royal  guest  — 
Death  !  Before  this  hour  has  passed,  I  shall  be  no  more  — 
no  more.  I  could  not  lie  in  my  bed,  sobbing  and  shrinking 
like  a  frightened  child  ;  I  would  meet  my  conqueror  with 
calmness,  in  the  triumph  of  my  philosophy,  with  the  pride 
of  a  spirit  free  and  unbroken  to  the  last.  You  weeping, 
Henry,’  she  said,  seeing  her  husband’s  uncontrollable  emo- 


EFFIE  MATHER. 


91 


tion,  4  this  is  weakness  in  you  —  be  a  'philosopher .  Believe 
me,  it  is  not  hard  for  me  to  die.  I  am  very  weary,  and 
long  to  repose  deep  in  the  bosom  of  Mother  Earth,  where 
the  struggle  and  the  hurry  and  the  noise  of  life  shall  never 
come.  I  have  tasted  of  life’s  most  tempting  goblets  ;  love, 
and  pleasure,  and  power,  and  knowledge,  and  now  I  thirst 
only  for  that  last  charmed  draught  of  sleep  and  forgetfulness, 
called  death. 

4  Tell  my  mother,  Henry,  that  her  love  was  warm  at  my 
heart,  even  at  the  last  hour ;  and  tell  my  father  that  I  passed 
away  happy  and  tranquil,  in  the  full  belief  that  death  is  but 
an  eternal  sleep.' 

At  these  words,  Warren,  who  was  kneeling  by  Effie’s 
side,  overcome  by  grief  and  a  nameless  dread,  bent  his  face 
upon  her  knee,  and  sobbed  aloud.  Effie  laid  her  already 
cold  hand  upon  his  head,  saying  in  a  scarcely  audible  voice, 
4  Poor  Henry  !  Poor  Henry  !  ’  For  some  moments  the  sor¬ 
rowing  husband  remained  thus ;  then  feeling  that  hand 
growing  colder  and  heavier  on  his  brow,  he  raised  himself 
and  looked  up,  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

The  summer  succeeding  the  death  of  Effie  found  Henry 
Warren  in  his  paternal  home,  in  Massachusetts,  broken  in 
health  and  spirit ;  a  hopeless  and  comfortless  mourner,  who 
had  seen  the  one  light  of  his  life  go  down  in  thick  darkness 
which  promised  no  morning.  He  was  finally  roused  from 
the  apathy  of  his  grief  by  the  illness  of  his  aged  mother, 
for  whom  he  had  ever  had  an  uncommon  affection.  Mrs. 
Warren  was  a  woman  of  noble  character;  gentle,  but  firm  ; 
of  large  sympathies,  liberal  principles,  and  earnest  piety. 
Though  now  a  great  sufferer,  from  a  most  painful  disease, 
she  was  never  heard  to  utter  a  murmur  or  complaint.  Strong 
was  her  faith,  childlike  her  submission,  and  4  untroubled 
flowed  the  river  of  her  peace.’ 

Day  after  day  watched  Henry  Warren  by  the  side  of  his 
sick  mother,  his  dying  mother.  There,  for  the  first  time  for 


92 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


many  years,  he  read  God’s  word,  and  there  heard  a  wise  and 
beautiful  interpretation  of  its  sacred  mysteries. 

Oh,  how,  in  such  hours,  was  he  borne  back  to  his  inno¬ 
cent  and  happy  childhood  ;  to  the  pUTre  hope  of  his  youth,  ere 
a  cold  skepticism  came  to  blight  the  opening  summer  of  his 
life  !  But  now  again  was  Heaven’s  truth  falling  like  fresh¬ 
ening  dew  on  that  desolated  life  ;  now  he  heard  in  times  of 
stillness  the  old  faith  knocking  at  his  heart;  now  he  felt 
God’s  angel  wrestling  mightily  with  his  spirit. 

He  knew  that  his  mother  prayed  for  him.  Often  at  night, 
when  she  thought  him  asleep  in  the  room  adjoining  her  own, 
did  he  listen  to  her  dear  voice  pleading  with  Heaven  for  the 
salvation  of  her  son,  and  deep  in  his  heart  he  responded 
4  Amen  !  ’ 

One  Sabbath  afternoon,  a  short  time  before  she  died,  Mrs. 
Warren  desired  to  receive  the  sacrament.  The  pastor  came, 
and  the  simple  supper  of  the.  Lord  was  spread  in  that 
4  upper  chamber.’  During  the  prayer  of  the  good  minister, 
Henry,  kneeling  by  the  side  of  his  mother,  made  there  his 
silent  and  solemn  consecration,  and  when  it  was  finished,  he 
arose  and  said  : 

4  Mother,  I  believe  in  God  —  in  Revelation  —  I  trust  in 
Christ  Jesus  ;  let  me  partake  of  this  holy  sacrament  with 
you  !  ’ 

4  Oh,  God,  I  thank  Thee  !’  murmured  that  mother,- with 
clasped  hands  and  tearful  eyes  ;  and  Heaven  was  with  that 
little  group,  blessing  and  sanctifying  anew  the  symbols  of  * 
redeeming  love. 

Chastened  with  gratitude  and  hope  was  the  grief  of  Henry 
Warren  for  his  beloved  mother.  Few  were  the  tears  shed 
for  that  aged  saint,  who  in  triumph  had  finished  her  course, 
and  whose  countenance  wore  even  in  death,  a  sweet  and 
placid  smile  —  the  sign  of  perfect  peace  —  the  assurance  of 
immortality. 


APOLLONIA  JAGIELLO. 


During  a  late  visit  to  Washington,  it  was  my  good  fortune 
to  become  acquainted  with  Mile.  Jagiello,  the  Hungaiian 
heroine,  who  was  then  staying  at  the  house  of  hei  fiicnd, 
M.  Tyssowski.  Becoming  much  interested  in  her,  I  re¬ 
quested  to  be  allowed  to  write  a  sketch  of  her  ‘  strange, 
eventful  history  ;  ’  knowing  that,  in  so  doing,  I  should  not 
only  give  myself  a  rare  pleasure,  but  gratify  my  countiy- 
women,  to  most  of  whom  the  brilliant  career  of  the  brave 
woman-soldier  is  more  a  dazzling  dream  of  romance  than 
a  simple  reality.  To  assist  me  in  this  pleasant  woik,  a 
friend  of  Mile.  Jagiello,  Major  Tochman,  of  Washington, 
was  so  kind  as  to  furnish  me  with  some  memoranda  of 
facts,  which  she  had  communicated  to  him ;  and  upon  this 
authority  I  shall  proceed  in  my  brief  biography.  These 
notes  are  not  as  full  as  I  could  desire  in  legal d  to  the  pn- 
vate  life  and  personal  relations  of  the  heroine  ;  but  I  under¬ 
stand  that  there  are  reasons  why  matters  of  this  kind  should 
not  now  be  made  public. 

Apollonia  Jagiello  was  born  in  Lithuania,  a  part  of  the 
land  where  Thaddeus  Kosciusko  spent  his  first  days.  She 
was  educated  at  Cracow,  the  ancient  capital  of  Poland,  —  a 
city  filled  with  monuments  and  memorials  sadly  recalling  to 
the  mind  of  every  Pole  the  past  glory  of  his  native  land. 
There,  and  in  Warsaw  and  Vienna,  she  passed  the  days  of 


94 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


her  early  girlhood.  She  was  about  nineteen  when  the 
revolution  of  1846  broke  out  at  Cracow.  1  That  revolution,’ 
says  Major  Tochman,  4  so  little  understood  in  this  country, 
although  of  brief  duration,  must  and  will  occupy  an  impor¬ 
tant  place  in  Polish  history.  It  declared  the  emancipation 
of  the  peasantry  and  the  abolition  of  hereditary  rank,  all 
over  Poland  ;  proclaimed  equality,  personal  security,  and 
the  enjoyment  of  the  fruits  of  labor,  as  inherent  rights  of 
all  men  living  on  Polish  soil.  It  was  suppressed  by  a  most 
diabolical  plot  of  the  Austrian  Government.  Its  mercenary 
soldiery,  disguised  in  the  national  costume  of  the  peasants, 
excited  against  the  nobility  the  ignorant  portion  of  the 
peasantry  in  Gallicia,  which  province,  with  other  parts  of 
ancient  Poland,  had  to  unite  in  insurrection  with  the  republic 
of  Cracow.  They  were  made  to  believe,  by  those  vile 
emissaries,  that  the  object  of  the  nobility  was  to  take  advan¬ 
tage  of  the  approaching  revolution,  to  exact  from  them 
higher  duties.  In  the  mean  time  the  civil  and  military 
officers  of  the  Austrian  Government  circulated  proclama¬ 
tions,  at  first  secretly,  then  publicly,  offering  to  the  peasants 
rewards  for  every  head  of  a  nobleman,  and  for  every  noble¬ 
man  delivered  into  the  hands  of  the  authorities  alive.  Four¬ 
teen  hundred  men,  women,  and  children,  of  noble  families, 
were  murdered  by  the  thus  excited  and  misled  peasantry, 
before  they  detected  the  fraud  of  the  Government.  This 
paralyzed  the  revolution  already  commenced  in  Cracow. 

4  The  Austrian  Government,  however,  did  not  reap  the 
full  fruit  of  its  villany  ;  for  when  the  peasants  perceived  it, 
they  arrayed  themselves  with  the  friends  of  the  murdered 
victims,  and  showed  so  energetic  a  determination  to  insist 
on  the  rights  which  the  revolution  at  Cracow  promised  to 
secure  to  them,  that  the  Austrian  Government  found  itself 
compelled  to  grant  them  many  immunities.’ 

This  was  the  first  revolution  in  which  Mile.  Jagiello,  who 
was  then  in  Cracow,  took  an  active  part.  She  was  seen  on 
horseback,  in  the  picturesque  costume  of  the  Polish  soldier, 


APOLLONIA  JAGIELLO. 


95 


in  the  midst  of  the  patriots  who  first  planted  the  white  eagle 
and  the  flag  of  freedom  on  the  castles  of  the  ancient  capital 
of  her  country,  and  was  one  of  the  handful  of  heroes  who 
fought  the  battle  near  Podgorze,  against  a  tenfold  stronger 
enemy.  Mr.  Tyssowski,  now  of  Washington,  was  then  in¬ 
vested  with  all  civil  and  military  power  in  the  Republic. 
He  was  elevated  to  the  dictatorship  for  the  time  of  its 
danger,  and  by  him  was  issued  the  celebrated  manifesto 
declaring  for  the  people  of  Poland  the  great  principles  of 
liberty  to  which  we  have  already  alluded.  He  is  now  a 
draughtsman  in  the  employ  of  our  Government. 

After  the  Polish  revolution  which  commenced  in  Cracow 
was  suppressed,  Mile.  Jagiello  reassumed  female  dress,  and 
remained  undetected  for  a  few  weeks  in  that  city.  From 
thence  she  removed  to  Warsaw,  and  remained  there  and  in 
the  neighboring  country,  in  quiet  retirement  among  her 
friends.  But  the  revolution  of  1848  found  her  again  at 
Cracow,  in  the  midst  of  the  combatants.  Alas  !  that  revolu¬ 
tion  was  but  a  dream  ;  it  accomplished  nothing ;  it  perished 
like  all  other  European  revolutions  of  that  year,  so  great  in 
grand  promises,  so  mean  in  fulfilment.  But  their  fire  is 
yet  smouldering  under  the  ashes  covering  the  Old  World  — 
ashes  white  and  heavy  as  death  to  the  eye  of  the  tyrant, 
but  scarcely  hiding  the  red  life  of  a  terrible  retribution  from 
the  prophetic  eye  of  the  lover  of  freedom. 

Mile.  Jagiello  then  left  Cracow  for  Vienna,  where  she 
arrived  in  time  to  take  a  heroic  part  in  the  engagement  at 
the  faubourg  Widen.  But  her  chief  object  in  going  to 
Vienna  was  to  inform  herself  of  the  character  of  that  revo¬ 
lution,  and  to  carry  news  to  the  Hungarians,  who  were  then 
in  the  midst  of  a  revolution,  which  she  and  her  countrymen 
regarded  as  involving  the  liberation  of  her  beloved  Poland, 
and  presaging  the  final  regeneration  of  Europe.  With  the 
aid  of  devoted  friends,  she  reached  Presburg  safely,  and 
from  that  place,  in  the  disguise  of  a  peasant,  was  conveyed 
by  the  Hungarian  peasantry  carrying  provisions  for  the 
Austrian  army,  to  the  village  of  St.  Paul. 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


96 

Among  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  crossing  the  coun¬ 
try  occupied  by  the  Austrians,  after  swimming  on  horseback 
two  rivers,  she  at  last,  on  the  15th  of  August  1848,  reached 
the  Hungarian  camp,  near  the  village  of  Eneszev,  just 
before  the  battle  there  fought,  in  which  the  Austrians  were 
defeated,  and  lost  General  Wist.  This  was  the  first  Hun¬ 
garian  battle  in  which  our  heroine  took  part  as  volunteer. 
She  was  soon  promoted  to  the  rank  of  lieutenant,  and,  at 
the  request  of  her  Hungarian  friends,  took  charge  of  a 
hospital  in  Comorn.  Whilst  there,  she  joined,  as  volunteer, 
the  expedition  of  twelve  thousand  troops,  under  the  com¬ 
mand  of  the  gallant  General  Klapka,  which  made  a  sally, 
and  took  Raak.  She  returned  in  safety  to  Comorn,  where 
she  remained,  superintending  the  hospital,  until  the  capitu¬ 
lation  of  the  fortress. 

She  came  to  the  United  States  in  December  last,  with 
Governor  Ladislas  Ujhazy  and  his  family,  where  she  and 
her  heroic  friends  received  a  most  enthusiastic  welcome. 

1  know  that  some  of  my  gentle  and  delicate  countrywoman 
may  shrink  from  a  contemplation  of  the  martial  career  of 
Mile.  Jagiello,  or  regard  it  with  amazement  and  a  half¬ 
fearful  admiration.  But  they  must  remember  for  what  a 
country  she  fought,  with  what  an  enemy  she  contended. 
Loving  Poland  with  a  love  which  had  all  the  strength  and 
fervor  of  a  religion,  and  hating  its  haughty  and  brutal  op¬ 
pressors  with  all  the  intensity  of  a  high  and  passionate 
nature,  when  the  hour  of  uprising  and  fierce  struggle  came 
at  last,  could  she  do  otherwise  than  join  her  brothers  ?  To 
cheer  them  with  her  inspiring  voice  ;  to  strike  with  them  for 
the  one  glorious  cause  ;  a  great  purpose,  making  strong  her 
girlish  arm,  and  the  dawn  of  a  great  hope  brightening  in 
her  eyes.  Ah  !  those  beautiful  eyes  !  How  often  must  her 
brave  followers,  when  sad  and  disheartened,  have  turned  to 
them  for  cheer  and  guidance,  drinking  fresh  courage  from 
those  fountains  of  light. 


APOLLONI A  JAGIELLO. 


97 


The  eagerness  with  which  our  heroine  took  part  in  the 
Hungarian  revolution,  proved  that  her  patriotism  was  not 
confined  within  the  narrow  limits  of  her  native  land  ;  that 
she  loved  freedom  even  more  than  Poland.  In  the  situation 
which  she  so  readily  filled  in  the  hospital  at  Comorn,  as  the 
patient  nurse  of  the  wounded,  and  the  comforter  of  the 
dying,  she  revealed  beneath  the  heroism  of  the  soldier  the 
tenderness  of  the  woman  —  a  heart  within  a  heart.  The 
hand  which  had  clenched  the  sword  with  a  firm  grasp,  and 
been  stained  with  the  base  blood  of  the  Austrian,  looked 
very  soft  and  fair  as  it  smoothed  the  pillow  of  the  sick,  or 
held  the  cooling  draught  to  fever-parched  lips ;  and  the  eye 
which  had  looked  steadily  on  the  mad  rush,  the  flame  and 
tumult  of  the  fight,  and  flashed  its  beautiful  defiance  in  the 
face  of  the  advancing  foe,  grew  wondrous  pitiful  as  it  gazed 
upon  the  bleeding  and  prostrate  patriot,  and  dropped  fast 
tears  on  the  dead  brow  of  a  fellow-soldier. 

The  daughters  of  Poland  and  Hungary  are  a  grand  race  of 
women.  They  do  not  assume  the  garb  and  take  the  arms 
of  the  soldier,  nor  do  his  terrible  work,  because  they  are 
stern,  and  hard,  and  warlike  by  nature,  but  because  all  that 
is  dear  to  them  on  earth  —  home,  honor,  liberty,  and  love  — 
are  at  stake.  They  fight  with  and  for  the  best  loved  of 
their  hearts  —  their  great  hearts,  which  cannot  comprehend 
a  feeling  that  would  cause  them  to  shrink  from  the  side  of 
a  father,  a  husband,  or  a  brother,  in  the  hour  of  extremest 
peril.  Their  courage,  after  all,  is  of  that  quality  which 

‘  Is  but  the  tender  fierceness  of  the  dove, 

Peeking  the  hand  that  hovers  o'er  its  mate.’ 

Many  were  the  heroines  actively  engaged  in  serving  the 
cause  of  freedom  during  the  Hungarian  struggle.  Not 
alone  in  the  saddle  and  under  arms,  but  in  ways  and  capaci¬ 
ties  not  less  honorable,  though  perhaps  less  imposing. 
General  Pragay,  in  his  work  on  Hungary,  says  : 

4  No  sooner  had  Windischgratz  gratified  himself  with 
9 


98 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


executions  by  the  dozen,  and  guarded  the  bastions  of  Vienna 
with  cannon,  than  lie  marched  his  disposable  force,  amount¬ 
ing  to  seventy-two  thousand  men,  upon  Hungary.  It  was 
quite  impossible  to  resist  such  a  power  in  extending  can¬ 
tonments,  and  after  several  unimportant  actions,  Gorgey 
ordered  a  general  retreat  to  Raab,  in  the  middle  of  Decem¬ 
ber.  Here  intrenchments  were  thrown  up,  on  which  the 
noblest  ladies  worked  with  their  delicate  hands. ’ 

A  sister  of  Kossuth  served  during  the  war  as  general 
superintendent  of  hospitals ;  Mile.  Mary  Lagos  served  as 
adjutant  in  the  brigade  of  General  Asherman.  She  was 
taken  prisoner  and  her  fate  is  unknown.  Mile.  Carol 
served  as  captain  ;  she  was  a  niece  of  General  Windisch- 
gratz,  and  fought  twice  against  the  Austrians  commanded 
by  her  uncle.  She  was  taken  prisoner  in  a  battle  fought 
against  the  infamous  Haynau,  and  shot  by  his  order. 

Not  vainly  have  those  glorious  women  dared,  and  strug¬ 
gled,  and  endured,  and  died.  The  world  needs  such  lessons 
of  heroic  devotion,  of  the  soul’s  greatness  triumphant  over 
mortal  weakness  ;  and  their  names,  wreathed  with  the  rose, 
the  laurel,  and  the  cypress,  shall  be  kept  in  sweet,  and 
proud,  and  mournful  remembrance,  while  heroes  are  hon¬ 
ored,  and  great  deeds  can  rouse  human  hearts,  and  while 
the  tyrant  is  hated  of  man  and  accursed  of  God. 

Mile.  Jagiello  is  now  with  us.  She  seems  to  regard  the 
land  of  her  adoption  with  admiration  and  affection,  though 
looking  on  its  beauty  and  grandeur  through  the  tearful  eyes 
of  an  exile. 

Those  of  my  readers  who  have  never  seen  the  Hungarian, 
or  rather  Polish  heroine,  may  be  interested  in  hearing  some¬ 
thing  of  her  'personnel.  She  is  now  about  twenty-four,  of 
medium  height,  and  quite  slender.  Her  arm  and  hand  are 
especially  delicate  and  beautiful,  and  her  figure  round  and 
graceful.  She  is  a  brunette,  with  large  dark  eyes,  and 
black,  abundant  hair.  Her  lips  have  an  expression  of  great 
determination,  but  her  smile  is  altogether  charming.  In 


APOL IiONIA  JAGIELLO. 


99 


that  the  woman  comes  out ;  it  is  arch,  soft,  and  winning  — 
a  rare  and  indescribable  smile.  Her  manner  is  simple  and 
engaging,  her  voice  is  now  gentle  or  mirthful,  now  earnest 
and  impassioned  ;  sometimes  sounds  like  the  utterance  of 
some  quiet,  home-love,  and  sometimes  startles  you  with  a 
decided  ring  of  the  steel.  Her  enthusiasm  and  intensity  of 
feeling  reveal  themselves  in  almost  everything  she  says  and 
does.  An  amusing  instance  was  told  me  when  in  Washing¬ 
ton.  An  album  was  one  day  handed  her,  for  her  autograph. 
She  took  it  with  a  smile  ;  but  on  opening  it  at  the  name  of 
M.  Bodisco,  the  Russian  ambassador,  pushed  it  from  her 
with  flashing  eyes,  refusing  to  appear  in  the  same  book 
with  ‘  the  tool  of  a  tyrant !  ’ 

Yet,  after  all,  she  is  one  to  whom  children  go,  feeling  the 
charm  of  her  womanhood,  without  being  awed  by  her  great¬ 
ness.  She  bears  herself  with  no  military  air;  there  is 
nothing  in  her  manner  to  remind  you  of  the  camp,  though 
much  to  tell  you  that  you  are  in  the  presence  of  no  ordinary 
woman. 

The  life  of  a  soldier,  with  its  dangers  and  privations, 
with  all  its  fearful  contingencies,  was  not  sought  by  Jagiello 
for  its  own  sake,  nor  for  the  glory  it  might  confer,  but  was 
accepted  as  the  means  to  a  great  end.  She  believed  that 
the  path  of  her  country  led  through  the  Red  Sea  of  revolu¬ 
tion,  to  liberty  and  peace,  and  stood  up  bravely  by  the  side 
of  that  country  ;  her  young  heart  fired  and  her  slender  arm 
nerved  with  a  courage  that  knew  not  sex. 

As  the  women  of  America  have  given  their  admiration  to 
her  heroism,  they  will  give  also,  and  more  abundantly,  their 
sympathy  to  her  misfortune.  She  bears  to  our  shores  a 
weary  and  an  almost  broken  heart.  May  she  here  find 
repose  and  consolation,  while  awaiting  that  brighter  day, 
which  shall  as  surely  dawn  for  her  unhappy  country,  as 
freedom  is  the  primal  right  of  man,  as  oppression  is  a  false¬ 
hood  and  a  wrong,  and  as  God  is  over  all. 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


CHAPTER  I .- 

4  And  so,  Margaret,  you  will  not  promise  to  use  your 
influence  toward  obtaining  this  appointment  for  me  r  ’ 

‘  Ah,  Herbert,  do  not  urge  me  !  I  cannot  do  this  thing 
consistently  with  my  own  sense  of  duty  ;  and  I  am  amazed 
and  shocked  that  you  should  so  far  forget  your  often  avowed 
principles  as  to  desire  to  engage  in  this  most  unrighteous 
war  —  a  war  without  one  just  cause,  or  one  noble  object ; 
but  waged  against  an  unoffending  people,  in  the  rapacity  ot 
conquest,  and  for  the  extension  and  perpetuation  of  human 
slavery.  You  surely  are  not  hoping  thus  to  win  true  glory. 

4  But  I  am  ambitious  of  distinction,  which  I  must  have,  and 
which  I  can  gain  in  no  other  way  that  I  can  see.’ 

4  And  why  this  sudden  thirst  for  distinction  ?  This  in¬ 
tense  ambition  is  certainly  a  new  development  of  your 
character,  and  it  troubles  me  more  than  I  can  tell.  Why  is 
it  that  you  desire  a  great  name  more  than  ever  before  ?  ’ 

4  If  you  cannot  guess,  if  you  must  be  told,  dear  Margaret, 
it  is  that  I  may  stand  on  an  equality  with  you.  Now,  your 
wealth  and  position  humiliate  me.  1 

4  Does  my  love  humiliate  you,  Herbert?’ 

4  No,  dearest.’ 

4  And,  yet,  is  it  not  of  infinitely  greater  worth  ?  All  the 
wealth  and  honors  of  the  world  could  not  buy  it.’ 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


101 


‘  I  know  that,  Margaret ;  but,  before  the  world,  I  cannot 
be  lifted  up  even  by  your  dear  arms  to  a  position  I  have  not 
earned.  I  cannot  consent  to  receive  every  thing,  where  I 
would  give  all.  I  forgot  my  manly  pride  in  the  one  ab¬ 
sorbing  sense  of  my  love,  wherl  I  sued  for  your  hand  ;  but 
it  has  since  made  itself  remembered  ;  and  you  have  felt, 
without  understanding  it,  in  what  you  have  called  my 
4  strange  moods.’  Your  noble  love  is  to  me  the  crown  of 
life,  yet  1  can  never  wear  it  in  peace,  until  the  world  shall 
acknowledge  my  right  to  it. 

4  Now,  as  I  have  said,  your  influence  with  your  uncle  may 
gain  for  me  the  command  of  a  volunteer  company.  I  have 
a  bold  heart  and  a  strong  arm,  and,  in  a  short  time,  I  am 
confident  I  can  gain  distinction  as  a  soldier.’ 

‘  And  lose  my  esteem.  Herbert,  I  never  can  consent  to 
this ;  and  I  tell  you  frankly,  that  what  little  influence  I 
possess  I  shall  use  against  this  mad  enterprise  of  yours. 
Forgive  me  if  I  pain  you,  dearest;  but  out  of  the  very  love 
I  bear  you  I  must  oppose  you  in 'this.  I  speak  only  of  love, 
though  1  might  speak  of  rights  and  claims  too  strong,  too 
solemn,  to  be  lightly  set  aside.’ 

‘Then  I  must  bid  you  good  morning,  and  try  my  fortune 
elsewhere.’ 

It  was  in  the  elegant  parlor  of  a  handsome  house  in  one 
of  our  Western  cities,  that  the  above  conversation  took 
place,  between  a  pair  of  betrothed  lovers,  on  a  morning  in 
the  year  1846. 

Margaret  Neale  was  an  orphan,  and  the  heiress  to  great 
wealth.  She  was  the  ward  of  an  uncle,  with  whom  she 
resided.  Herbert  Moore  was  a  poor,  obscure  boy  when  he 
first  fell  under  the  notice  of  the  father  of  Margaret,  who 
employed  him  in  various  capacities,  gave  him  a  fine  mer¬ 
cantile  education,  and,  a  short  time  previous  to  his  own 
death,  advanced  him  to  the  post  of  confidential  clerk.  In 
this  situation,  which  was  continued  to  him  after  the  death  of 
his  patron,  Herbert  was  able  to  support  himself  well,  and 
9* 


102 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


to  assist  his  widowed  mother,  who  had  but  a  small  income 
of  her  own.  He  was  a  young  man  of  fine  intellect,  of  a 
warm  and  generous  heart,  but  of  a  quick,  passionate  temper, 
and,  as  we  have  seen,  of  an  excessive  and  morbid  pride. 
His  native  independence  was  not  subdued,  but  rather 
augmented,  by  the  great  obligations  under  which  he  had 
been  placed  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Neale  ;  and  when,  after 
the  death  of  his  benefactor,  he  was  thrown  much  into  the 
society  of  the  beautiful  heiress,  it  was  4  against  his  very  will 
and  wish  transgressing,’  that  he  loved  her  and  told  her  of 
his  love.  And  this  he  never  would  have  revealed,  had  he 
not  read,  in  the  involuntary  blush,  the  downcast  eyes,  and 
the  low,  trembling  voice  of  Margaret,  the  sweet  secret  of 
her  own  gentle  soul.  After  the  avowal  had  been  made,  and 
the  first  raptures  of  the  accepted  lover  were  past,  Herbert 
Moore  began  bitterly  to  reflect  on  the  light  in  which  he 
might  be  viewed  as  the  betrothed  of  Miss  Neale  —  he,  the 
penniless  protege ,  almost  the  creature  of  her  father.  He 
feared  being  thought  a  mercenary,  poor-spirited  schemer, 
who  had  made  use  of  extraordinary  opportunities  of  access 
to  the  lovely  young  heiress  to  gain  her  affection  and  her 
fortune,  giving  nothing  which  the  world  would  deem  an 
adequate  return.  These  thoughts  fretted  and  stung  the  proud 
heart  of  the  sensitive  young  man,  until  he  almost  looked 
upon  himself  as  an  upstart  and  an  adventurer. 

Had  Herbert  Moore  regarded  the  matter  in  a  just  light, 
he  would  have  seen  that  his  best  vindication  and  assurance 
lay  in  the  well-understood  character  of  Margaret  Neale. 
The  parents  of  our  heroine  were  Scotch,  of  the  true  old 
Covenanter  stock,  and  from  them  she  inherited  some  strong 
and  peculiar  characteristics.  Though  a  sweet  and  loving 
woman,  she  possessed  a  vigorous  mind,  a  clear  judgment, 
and  a  hearty  independence  —  traits  and  powers  which,  of 
themselves,  raised  her  far  above  the  suspicion  of  being 
blinded  by  a  romantic  passion,  or  duped  into  the  acceptance 
of  an  unworthy  love.  Such  was  the  high  estimation  in 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


103 


which  she  was  held  by  all  who  knew  her,  that  any  man 
whom  she  might  have  honored  by  the  bestowal  upon  him  of 
her  hand  and  fortune,  would,  from  that  circumstance  alone, 
have  been  deemed  worthy  of  all  respect. 

I  trust  that  my  reader  will  not  think  altogether  ill  of 
Herbert  Moore  that  he  did  not  thus  understand  the  character 
and  position  of  his  affianced  bride.  To  him  she  was  all 
devoted  love  and  clinging  tenderness,  and  he  did  not  per¬ 
ceive  that  her  nature  was  to  others  more  boldly  defined  ; 
that  in  society  she  was  strong,  impressive,  decidedly,  though 
delightfully,  individual.  Herbert’s  very  gratitude  to  his 
former  patron  seemed  to  impress  upon  him  the  unworthiness 
of  taking  advantage  of  his  position  in  the  family,  to  win  the 
hand  and  with  it  the  immense  fortune  of  the  heiress.  He 
must  not  be  harshly  censured  for  his  fault  —  a  fault  which 
sprung  from  a  generous  root,  and  one  with  which  few  young 
men,  like  him,  handsome  and  penniless,  can  be  charged. 

From  long  brooding  over  the  subject  of  his  relations 
towards  Margaret  Neale,  there  came  upon  Herbert  Moore  a 
burning  desire  to  make  for  himself  a  name,  which  even  in 
the  eyes  of  the  world,  might  balance  the  fortune  of  his 
bride.  Yet  how  was  this  to  be  accomplished  ?  Though 
possessed  of  various  talents,  Herbert  Moore  was  fully  aware 
that  he  had  no  positive  genius  for  any  department  of  science 
or  art.  He  was  not  a  brilliant  scholar,  though  educated  and 
well  read.  He  was  not  a  poet,  though  truly  poetical.  He 
was  not  an  artist,  though  of  fine  artistic  tastes.  Nor  was  he 
a  musician,  though  he  sung  pleasantly  at  evening  parties. 

Just  at  this  perplexing  period,  there  was  great  excitement 
throughout  the  country  upon  the  Mexican  war.  Our  hero’s 
native  State  raised  a  regiment  of  volunteers,  and  his  native 
city  was  called  upon  for  a  company.  To  the  command  of 
this  company  young  Moore  aspired,  though  in  heart  he 
utterly  condemned  the  objects  and  conduct  of  the  war.  Mr. 
Neale,  the  uncle  and  guardian  of  Margaret,  was  a  man  of 
fortune  and  great  influence  in  his  city  and  State,  and,  with 


104 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


his  countenance,  Moore  had  no  doubt  of  his  appointment. 
But  this  ‘  aid  and  comfort’  the  old  gentleman,  at  his  niece’s 
request,  declined  giving  to  his  young  friend  ;  softening  his 
refusal,  however,  by  the  kindest  professions  and  advice,  and 
by  saying  that  the  house  of  Neale  &  Co.  could  not  spare 
their  head  clerk. 

After  a  few  weeks,  during  which  Moore  was  still  bent 
upon  his  warlike  purpose,  having  some  hope  from  othfer 
quarters,  the  appointment  was  given  to  the  son  of  an  old 
soldier,  a  young  man  of  decided  military  propensities.  The 
consequence  was,  that  Moore,  in  a  sudden  fit  of  passion  and 
mortification,  enlisted  as  a  private  in  the  company  he  had 
wished  to  command. 

Margaret  Neale,  with  whom  of  late  he  had  had  but  brief 
and  constrained  interviews,  was  informed  of  this  piece  of 
madness  by  her  pastor,  old  Mr.  McDonald,  who  had  been  as 
a  father  to  Herbert  and  herself  since  their  childhood.  Mar¬ 
garet  was  quite  overwhelmed  by  the  sad  news,  and  sent  the 
good  minister  to  her  lover,  to  persuade  him,  even  yet,  to 
abandon  his  wild  undertaking.  When  Mr.  McDonald  re¬ 
turned  the  next  morning,  he  shook  his  head  sadly,  as  he 
placed  in  Margaret’s  hand  the  following  letter  : 

4  My  dear  Margaret,  —  If  I  may  yet  once  more  call  you 
thus  —  once  more,  and  for  the  last  time,  I  shall  so  presume. 

4 1  failed  to  obtain  the  appointment  which  I  desired  ;  failed 
partly,  if  not  entirely,  through  your  adverse  influence ;  and, 
in  my  first  disappointment  and  chagrin,  ]  have  taken  a  rash 
step,  but  I  will  abide  the  issue,  and  submit  to  the  penalty.  I 
return  you  your  troth  —  too  high  an  honor,  too  priceless  a 
treasure,  to  be  possessed  by  a  poor  volunteer  —  an  adven¬ 
turer —  a  soldier  in  the  ranks.  My  own  must  remain  with 
you  for  ever.  Though  I  go  from  you  under  a  cloud,  though 
you  turn  from  me  with  coldness,  despise  and  forget  me,  I 
am  still  yours  —  yours  in  life  and  in  death  ;  and  the  thought 
of  no  other  love  shall  ever  visit  this  sad  heart,  than  that 
which  for  a  brief  season  uplifted  it  to  heaven. 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


105 


*  My  poor  mother !  Need  I  commend  her  to  your  care 
and  affection  ?  I  dare  not  ask  you  to  be  to  her  as  a  daugh¬ 
ter,  for  the  sake  of  our  past  love  ;  but  for  her  own  dear 
sake,  and  remembering  your  forgiving  tenderness,  I  dare 
even  ask  this  of  you. 

4 1  leave  my  mother  in  the  enjoyment  of,  I  trust,  a  com¬ 
fortable  income  from  her  own  little  property  and  mine ;  so 
her  care  will  only  be  for  me,  her  unworthy  son. 

4  And  now,  farewell !  I  have  no  strength  with  which  to 
part  with  you  otherwise  than  thus,  even  should  you  con¬ 
descend  to  grant  me  an  interview.  If  I  ever  return,  it  will 
be  with  the  hard-earned  honors  which  may  make  me  even 
your  peer,  in  the  world’s  sight.  If  I  return  not,  then  you 
may  know  that  in  a  soldier’s  obscure  and  crowded  grave, 
under  a  foreign  soil,  there  moulders  away  a  heart  which  to 
its  latest  throb  held  you  dearer  than  its  life-blood. 

4  Think  as  kindly  of  me  as  you  can,  for,  oh !  Margaret ! 
if  I  have  erred  in  this  step,  it  is  from  my  love,  which,  though 
so  proud  and  impetuous,  is  all  as  tender  and  devoted.  If  I 
have  brought  sorrow  to  your  heart,  forgive !  for,  believe  me, 
the  sharpest  grief,  the  sternest  agony,  is  mine. 

4  May  God  be  with  you  ! 

4  Herbert  Moore.’ 

To  the  above  letter,  Margaret  Neale  returned  this  reply  : 

4  My  dear  Friend  :  —  In  a  very  few  words  I  must  give 
you  my  sorrowful  farewell.  My  soul  is  too  much  shaken 
and  my  heart  too  cruelly  torn  with  contending  emotions  for 
clear  thought  or  calm  speech. 

4 1  take  back  the  plighted  troth  you  return  to  me  —  for 
you  no  longer  seem  the  man  to  whom  so  lately  I  joyfully 
and  trustingly  gave  my  love  and  my  faith. 

‘  You  are  mistaken.  Not  from  your  love  you  do  this 
wrong,  but  from  your  pride  —  your  hard,  unlovely  pride  — 
and  dearer  to  you  than  my  esteem  and  affection  is  your  own 
fierce  and  fiery  independence.  For  the  triumph  of  your 


106 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


haughty  will,  and  from  a  poor  fear  of  the  mean  suspicions 
of  the  world,  you  have  been  willing  to  lay  a  crushing  sorrow 
on  a  heart  which  has  loved  you  only  too  welL  God  forgive 
you,  Herbert!  God  forgive  you. 

1  Your  mother,  for  her  own  sake,  shall  be  dear  to  me,  and 
also  for  the  sake  of  our  lost  love. 

4  I  bid  you  a  last  adieu  !.  If  you  return  from  war  and 
conquest,  you  will  doubtless  come  as  the  renowned  hero,  to 
others  —  as  the  stranger,  to  me.  At  the  last,  1  must  speak 
the  truth  at  my  heart,  and  say,  that  in  my  eyes,  as  in  the 
eyes  of  all  lovers  of  justice  and  freedom  throughout  the 
world,  all  the  honors  gained  by  the  actors  in  this  most 
unholy  war  against  a  sister  republic  will  be  so  many  dis¬ 
graces.  Oh,  believe  me!  laurels  won  on  such  battle-fields 
may  never  light  the  brow  with  true  glory,  but  only  darken 
it  with  curses. 

‘  But  I  know  that  it  is  vain  to  talk  thus  to  you  at  this  late 
hour.  The  path  you  have  chosen  you  will  resolutely  pursue. 
Herbert,  I  do  not  yet  repdnt  me  of  my  opposition  to  your 
first  project.  1  did  what  I  thought  right  —  God  will  care  for 
the  result. 

4  With  a  prayer  to  Heaven  for  your  preservation  through 
the  fearful  dangers  which  you  must  encounter  —  a  fervent 
pleading  which  is  the  deepest  cry  of  my  heart  —  I  hid  you 
farewell !  Margaret  Neale.’ 

It  was  on  a  chilly  and  cloudy  morning  that  the  embarka¬ 
tion  of  the  - regiment  of  volunteers  took  place  from  the 

wharf  of  the  city  of - .  Sad  and  touching  beyond 

description  were  some  of  the  scenes  which  then  passed  on 
the  river  banks,  and  on  the  thickly  thronged  boats.  There 
a  gallant  officer  gently  unwound  the  arms  of  his  fainting 
wife,  and  put  her  from  the  heaving  breast  whereon  she 
would  lean  no  more ;  and  here  a  bold  young  soldier  strove, 
with  a  quivering  lip,  to  release  himself  from  the  clinging 
embraces  of  his  little  brothers,  and  wrung  the  hand  of  his 
old  father  for  the  last  time. 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


107 


Herbert  Moore  had  parted  from  his  mother  at  her  humble 
little  home,  but  many  of  his  friends  accompanied  h'im  to  the 
boat,  and  bade  him  farewell  with  much  show  of  feeling. 
Just  before  the  vessel  put  off,  a  close  carriage  drove  down  to 
the  wharf,  and  the  venerable  Mr.  McDonald  came  on  board 
to  take  his  misguided  young  friend  by  the  hand,  and  bid  him 
farewell.  This  affected  Herbert  more  than  any  thing,  and 
when  he  parted  from  the  kind  old  man,  his  voice  faltered 
and  his  eyes  filled  with  tears.  When  Mr.  McDonald  re¬ 
turned  to  the  carriage,  he  found  the  silken  curtain  withdrawn 
from  the  window,  and,  leaning  back  against  the  cushions, 
sobbing  convulsively,  was  the  dear  child  of  his  heart,  Mar¬ 
garet  Neale.  The  good  pastor  laid  his  hand  tenderly  upon 
hers,  but  said  nothing.  They  drove  a  little  way  down  the 
river,  and  then  paused  —  for,  with  a  burst  of  martial  music, 
and  with  banners  flying,  the  boats  started.  On  the  foremost, 
clad  in  the  light-blue  uniform  of  the  common  soldier,  and 
with  his  blanket  wrapped  about  him,  stood,  leaning  against 
the  pilot-house,  a  slight  young  man,  scarcely  beyond  boy¬ 
hood,  with  a  face  singularly  handsome,  but  saddened  and 
gloomy.  This  was  Herbert  Moore,  the  ardent  aspirant  for 
military  glory.  Poor  boy  ! 

He  now  watched  the  carriage  of  Mr.  Neale  with  an 
indefinable  interest,  a  strange,  sad  yearning,  though  he  did 
not  know  that  it  held  Margaret.  He  could  not  see  the 
mournful  face  at  the  window  —  those  streaming  eyes  look¬ 
ing  their  last  love  upon  him  —  those  quivering  lips  murmur¬ 
ing  brokenly  his  name,  only  his  name. 

But  the  last  shouts  died  away  on  the  shore  —  rapidly  and 
proudly  those  noble  steamers  swept  down  the  river — the 
sound  of  the  music  came  more  and  more  faintly  —  the 
smoke-wreaths  rose  smaller  and  lighter  —  the  banners 
gleamed  in  the  far  distance  and  disappeared. 

On  the  morning  of  the  embarkation,  the  captain  of  the 
company  into  which  Herbert  Moore  had  enlisted  received  a 
letter,  enclosing  a  check  for  one  thousand  dollars,  which  ran 
thus : 


108 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


‘  Dear  Captain  Elliston, —  I  am  directed  by  a  near 
friend  of  Herbert  Moore,  a  private  in  your  company,  and  a 
young  gentleman  with  whom,  I  believe,  you  are  acquainted, 
to  place  in  your  bands  the  enclosed  sum,  for  his  benefit. 
This  is  to  be  used  in  any  emergency  —  in  sickness,  or  pri¬ 
vation —  or  in  case  of  his  death,  to  defray  the  expenses  of 
restoring  his  body  to  his  friends.  But,  under  all  circum¬ 
stances,  the  fact  of  the  money  having  been  placed  in  your 
hands  is  to  be  carefully  concealed  from  the  young  man. 
Let  him  suppose  that  all  extraordinary  aid  comes  from  bis 
captain  and  friend. 

*  Believing  that  you  will  readily  pardon  any  trouble  which 
this  commission  may  give  you,  I  remain  yours,  truly, 

‘  Hugh  McDonald.’ 


CHAPTER  II. 

We  must  briefly  chronicle  the  events  in  the  soldier  life  of 
Herbert  Moore.  He  saw  the  hard,  rough  side  of  his  pro¬ 
fession  ere  he  had  been  a  month  in  the  service.  The  hard¬ 
ships  to  which  he  was  at  once  exposed,  and  his  forced 
companionship  with  the  coarse  and  vicious  men  of  his 
regiment,  many  of  whom  were  soldiers  from  desperation 
and  a  brutal  propensity  for  pillage  and  bloodshed — and  the 
absence  from  almost  every  breast  of  true  chivalric  feeling, 
and  the  love  of  glory  —  were  surely  enough  to  disenchant 
him  most  effectually. 

He  first  saw  actual  service  at  the  bombardment  of  Vera 
Cruz.  Stationed  at  one  of  the  guns,  (for  he  belonged  to 
the  artillery,)  he  bravely  went  through  with  his  part ;  but  at 
the  close  of  the  siege,  and  on  the  surrender  of  the  city 
fortress,  he,  strangely  enough,  did  not  find  himself  counted 
as  one  of  the  heroes,  or  in  any  special  manner  distinguished 
above  his  fellows. 

In  the  capture  of  this  city,  our  hero  saw  war  in  all  its 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


109 


most  fearful  horrors  and  dread  calamities.  Hoping  to  give 
some  help  or  comfort  to  the  wretched  sufferers,  he  passed 
through  the  crowded  hospitals  —  through  the  churches, 
convents,  and  private  houses,  converted  into  hospitals  for  the 
time  —  and  witnessed  scene  after  scene  of  mortal  agony, 
bereavement,  and  desolation.  He  saw  the  chapel  wherein 
knelt  the  praying  nuns,  when  into  their  midst  burst  the  shell, 
on  its  errand  of  death  —  mangling  those  fair  forms  and 
draining  the  blood  of  those  innocent  hearts.  But  he  was 
most  touched  by  a  scene  he  witnessed  on  the  evening  of  the 
day  of  surrender.  Near  the  altar  of  one  of  the  churches, 
into  which  he  chanced  to  enter,  lay  a  young  Mexican,  richly 
dressed,  and  of  a  noble  air,  but  apparently  very  near  death. 
One  arm  was  disabled,  and  4  his  breast  was  all  but  shot 
in  two.’  Beside  him  knelt  a  beautiful  girl,  with  large 
Spanish  eyes,  and  most  abundant  dark  hair,  which  had 
fallen  from  its  band  and  was  flowing  over  her  shoulders. 
She  had  bound  up  the  wounded  arm  in  her  mantilla  of 
black  lace,  but  that  great  wound  in  the  breast,  welling  up 
incessantly  its  dark  crimson  tide,  she  had  evidently  de¬ 
spaired  of  stanching.  She  was  weeping  passionately,  and 
calling  on  her  husband,  or  her  betrothed,  in  the  delicious 
love-language  of  Spain.  It  seemed  that  her  Fernandes 
could  no  longer  speak,  but  he  looked  his  piteous  love  from 
his  death-shadowed  eyes,  more  eloquently  than  it  could 
have  been  spoken  in  words  ;  and  once,  when  that  poor  girl 
bent  down  to  kiss  the  lips  which  strove  vainly  to  articulate 
even  her  name,  her  long,  glossy  locks  swept  across  his 
bleeding  breast  —  this  seemed  to  trouble  him,  and  he  lifted 
them  in  his  hand  and  tried  to  wind  them  about  her  head.  It 
was  like  that  death-scene  in  Browning,  when  the  dying  lover 
says  — 

‘  Still  kiss  me  !  — care 

Only  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair, 

My  blood  will  hurt !  ’ 

IP 


110 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


At  the  terrible  battle  of  Cerro  Gordo,  Herbert  Moore  per¬ 
formed  prodigies  of  valor,  and  was  twice  wounded,  but  again, 
mysteriously,  the  praises  of  generals  and  the  honors  of  the 
service  passed  him  by,  to  fall  on  names  already  known,  on 
epauletted  shoulders. 

There  was  an  incident  connected  with  this  battle  which 
happened  to  our  hero,  but  which  he  did  not  relate  until  a 
year  or  two  had  passed.  Near  his  post,  there  fell,  toward 
the  close  of  the  struggle,  a  Mexican  officer,  mortally 
wounded.  Moved  by  a  humane  impulse,  Moore  ran  to  his 
assistance.  As  he  stooped  to  raise  the  head  of  the  dying 
man,  a  young  son  of  the  Mexican,  thinking  he  came  for 
plunder,  caught  up  his  father’s  dripping  sword,  and  gave 
Moore  a  severe  cut  across  the  forehead.  So  it  happened 
that  the  first  wound  which  the  chivalric  volunteer  received  in 
his  Mexican  crusade  was  from  the  hand  of  a  boy,  avenging 
the  death  and  defending  the  body  of  his  father.  But  before 
Moore  could  clear  his  sight  from  the  gush  of  blood  which 
blinded  him,  a  brutal  fellow-soldier,  who  had  witnessed  the 
scene,  with  a  fierce  oath,  thrust  his  bayonet  into  the  breast 
of  the  poor  lad,  who,  with  one  wild  cry,  fell  forward  upon 
his  wounded  father,  and  the  blood  of  the  two  mingled,  as 
they  died. 

At  Puebla,  our  hero  lay  for  several  weeks  in  the  misera¬ 
ble  hospital,  sick  from  his  wounds  and  with  chills  and  fever. 
Here,  but  for  the  kind  attention  and  what  he  deemed  the 
wonderful  liberality  of  Captain  Elliston,  he  must  have  died 
of  want  and  neglect.  As  it  was,  he -recovered,  and  joined 
the  army  on  its  march  for  the  capital  city.  At  the  storming 
of  Chapultepec,  the  gallant  Captain  Elliston  fell,  and,  while 
supporting  his  dying  friend  in  his  arms,  Moore  received  a 
rifle-ball  in  his  side,  which  stretched  him  on  the  turf.  Cap¬ 
tain  Elliston  was  already  insensible,  and  soon  died,  but, 
bleeding  and  struggling  in  his  agony  lay  young  Moore, 
trampled  on  by  contending  foes,  by  the  flying  and  the  pur¬ 
suing,  till  there  was  a  lull  in  the  storm  of  battle  —  till  its  thun- 


* 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


Ill 


ders  ceased  and  the  fierce  conflict  was  past.  He  was  then 
borne,  with  hundreds  of  his  fellow-soldiers,  to  a  temporary 
hospital,  where  he  underwent  the  torture  of  having  the  ball 
extracted  from  his  side  ;  and  when,  on  the  day  following, 
the  American  army  took  possession  of  the  Mexican  capital, 
our  hero,  exhausted  and  feverish,  made  his  grand  entree  in 
a  baggage-wagon.  Little  did  he  see  of  the  glory  and  the 
triumph  —  little  did  his  sad  heart  exult  even  at  the  shouts  of 
the  victorious  troops  when  they  poured  into  the  Plaza  Grande, 
and  the  star-spangled  banner  was  hoisted  over  the  National 
Palace.  To  the  hospital  he  was  again  consigned,  to  wear 
away  week  after  week  in  lonely  suffering  and  privation,  such 
as  he  had  never  known  before.  And  this  was  his  share  of 
the  glory  and  the  spoils  —  the  long-promised  4  revels  in  the 
Halls  of  the"  Montezumas.’ 

From  this  sickness  Moore  never  wholly  recovered  while 
in  Mexico ;  and  so  miserable  was  he  in  body,  and  so  often 
wandering  in  mind,  that  he  had  no  distinct  recollection  of 
how  he  returned  to  the  city  of  New  Orleans,  on  his  way 
home,  with  the  remnant  of  his  regiment.  There  they  were 
detained  some  time,  by  illness,  and  waiting  to  receive  their 
wretched  pay,  but  finally  disembarked  amid  the  shouts  and 
enthusiastic  'cheering  of  a  motley  crowd  of  citizens  — 
Frenchmen,  Jews,  sailors,  flatboatmen,  and  negroes.  Per¬ 
chance  a  fair  Creole  shuddered  as  she  looked  at  them,  and 

H  > 

thought  of  their  deeds  of  blood  and  sacrilege,  and  crossed 
herself  like  a  devout  Catholic  —  or  a  dark  brown  Spaniard 
scowled  at  them  from  beneath  his  huge  sombrero,  and  cursed 
them  between  his  shining  teeth.  But  all  the  most  respecta¬ 
ble  citizens,  all  true  American  patriots,  (as  patriots  go,)  de¬ 
lighted  to  honor  the  bold  fighters,  maimed,  and  sick,  and 
ill-clad,  as  they  were  —  and  all  doubtless  felt,  as  their  distin¬ 
guished  guest,  the  great  American  statesman,  had  felt,  when 
with  a  youthful  ardor  warming  his  chilled  veins,  and  the  old 
lion  croucliant  in  his  nature  thoroughly  roused,  he  declared 
that  lie  himself  4  would  like  to  kill  a  Mexican.’ 


112 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Just  before  the  steamer  left  the  Crescent  City,  the  friends 
of  a  gallant  young  officer  came  on  board,  to  present  him 
with  an  elegant  sword,  as  a  tribute  to  his  bravery.  When 
the  chief  citizen  closed  his  flattering  speech,  and  stepped 
forward  to  present  the  shining  blade,  lo  !  the  hero  had  no 
sword-arm  with  which  to  wield  it !  But  he  grasped  it  in  his 
left  hand,  and  waved  it  over  his  head,  while  his  sunken  eye 
gleamed,  and  a  hot  flush  kindled  in  his  sallow  cheek,  and  a 
deafening  shout  went  up  from  the  admiring  crowd. 

Four  days  after  this  proud,  animating  scene,  that  young 
officer  lay  in  his  coffin,  his  one  arm  lying  across  his  breast, 
and  that  sword  —  oh  !  splendid  mockery  !  —  glittering  at 
his  side. 


CHAPTER  III. 

Nearly  two  years  of  sorrow  and  care  had  passed  over  the 
head  of  Margaret  Neale,  shadowing  her  fair  brow,  and  dim¬ 
ming  somewhat  the  morning  brightness  of  her  smile.  In  all 
those  weary  months,  she  had  seemed  to  the  world  much  as 
of  old  — calm  and  cheerful,  and  sweetly  forgetful  of  herself ; 
but  those  beneath  the  same  roof  with  her  might  have  told  of 
sleepless  nights,  of  hours  of  melancholy  abstraction,  of  the 
deathly  whiteness  of  her  lips  at  the  news  of  any  recent  battle 
in  Mexico,  and  of  the  fearful  shrinking  of  her  sight  from  the 
list  of  the  killed  and  wounded. 

From  her  former  lover,  Margaret  had  never  heard  direct!}", 
and  but  seldom  through  his  mother,  to  whom  she  was  most 
affectionately  and  faithfully  devoted,  yet  with  whom  she  did 
not  often  converse  on  the  subject  nearest  the  hearts  of  both. 

Mrs.  Moore  had  last  heard  from  her  son  by  a  line  from 
New  Orleans,  and  was  now  daily  looking  for  the  arrival  of 
the  boat  in  which,  if  still  surviving,  he  would  return  to  his 
native  city. 

It  was  late  on  a  chilly  and  misty  night  that  a  gallant 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


113 


steamer,  having  on  board  some  three  hundred  soldiers,  com¬ 
ing  up  the  Ohio,  neared  the  city  of  - .  What  a  fearful 

contrast  did  those  men  present  to  the  fiery-hearted  young 
adventurers  who  had  once  embarked  from  that  shore,  amid 
the  waving  of  banners,  the  peal  of  martial  music,  and  the 
cheering  shouts  of  thousands  ! 

Standing  in  groups  upon  the  upper  deck,  looking  impa¬ 
tiently  toward  the  city,  speaking  little  and  in  low  tones, 
were  the  returned  volunteers  —  pale,  gaunt,  haggard,  and 
disfigured  men  —  shamefully  shabby  and  dirty  in  appear¬ 
ance,  forlorn  and  miserable  in  the  extreme. 

On  the  forward  part  of  the  lower  deck  stood  three  rude 
coffins,  containing  the  bodies  of  soldiers  who  had  died  on 
their  passage  up  the  Mississippi  —  officers,  for  such  privates 
as  had  died,  had  been  buried  with  little  delav  and  no  cere- 
mony  on  the  river  banks. 

On  a  large  coil  of  cable,  in  the  bow  of  the  boat,  and 
where  the  red  light  of  the  furnaces  gleamed  on  his  thin  and 
pallid  face,  lay  Herbert  Moore,  looking  full  fifteen  years 
older  than  at  the  time  when  he  left  his  native  city  and  set 
out  for  the  wars.  Never,  he  afterward  declared,  had  he 
suffered  more,  even  in  the  hospitals  of  Mexico,  than  he 
endured  in  this  passage  from  New  Orleans  ;  from  sickness, 
neglect,  cold  and  starvation.  For  the  first  time  for  many 
days  he  had  now  dragged  himself  from  his  miserable  berth, 
to  watch  in  pain  and  exhaustion,  and  apart  from  his  com¬ 
rades,  the  approach  to  that  dear  home  he  had  so  wantonly 
abandoned.  His  heart  was  agitated  with  the  most  painful 
anxieties  for  the  dear  ones  there,  for  not  one  letter  had  ever 
reached  him  in  camp  or  hospital.  He  knew  not  if  his 
mother  yet  lived  —  and  Margaret,  of  her  he  dared  not 
think  ;  he  felt  unworthy  to  breathe  her  name,  even  to  him¬ 
self. 

Nearer  and  nearer  shone  the  lights  of  the  city  ;  a  shout 
was  sent  up  by  an  expectant  crowd  on  shore,  and  feebly 
answered  by  those  on  board.  In  a  few  moments  more,  the 

10* 


114 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


boat  lay  at  the  wharf ;  her  planks  were  thrown  out,  and  the 
eager  friends  of  the  returned  volunteers  crowded  around 
them.  Almost  every  poor  fellow  had  some  one  to  take  him 
by  tbe  hand  and  call  him  by  his  Christian  name,  and  cor¬ 
dially  welcome  him  home.  Some  there  were  who  came  to 
look  around  vainly,  and  vainly  call  on  beloved  names  ;  and 
one  young  boy,  who  came  to  meet  his  father,  when  some¬ 
thing  was  told  him  in  a  low  voice  by  the  captain,  ran  and 
flung  himself  on  one  of  those  rude  coffins,  and  cried  aloud 
in  the  agony  of  a  sudden  grief. 

But  group  after  group  the  soldiers  and  their  friends  went 
on  shore,  until,  with  the  exception  of  two  or  three  sick  in 
their  berths,  Herbert  Moore  was  the  only  man  left  on  board. 
No  one  came  for  him  ;  he  was  forgotten,  abandoned,  utterly 
friendless  !  A  feeling  of  awful  desolation  came  over  him  — 
a  dread  sinking  of  the  soul  into  the  lowest  depths  of  lone¬ 
liness  and  despair.  He  drew  his  worn  cap  over  his  eyes, 
wrapped  his  tattered  blanket  about  him,  stretched  himself 
out,  and  prayed  that  he  might  die  ! 

A  hand  was  laid  gently  on  his  shoulder  —  he  looked  up, 
and  the  good  pastor,  Mr.  McDonald,  stood  at  his  side.  The 
old  man  gazed  searchingly  in  the  face  of  the  soldier  a 
moment,  and  then  folded  him  in  his  arms.  Herbert  could  not 
speak,  but  he  caught  the  hand  of  his  venerable  friend  and 
raised  it  to  his  lips,  in  the  excess  of  his  humility  and  grate- 
ful  joy.  Half  unconsciously,  the  young  volunteer  was  car¬ 
ried  on  shore,  in  the  arms  of  a  stout  serving  man,  and 
placed  in  a  carriage,  which  was  waiting  for  him  and  his 
friend.  Weak  and  faint,  he  was  sinking  helplessly  back 
against  the  cushions,  when  gentle  arms  were  wound  about 
him,  and  his  head  was  drawn  tenderly  against  a  soft  bosom. 

1  Mother !  is  it  you  ?  ’  asked  the  young  soldier,  in  a  trem¬ 
bling  voice,  for  it  was  so  dark  that  he  could  not  see  the  face 
bending  over  him.  There  was  no  word  given  in  answer, 
but  a  delicate  hand  glicled  over  his  emaciated  face,  and  fast 
tears  fell  on  his  pale,  scarred  brow. 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


115 


‘  Ah,’  be  murmured,  ‘  I  think  I  know  the  touch  of  that 
hand.  Margaret ,  is  it  you?' 

‘  Who  should  it  be  but  Margaret,  dear  Herbert?’  she 
replied,  bending  down,  and  kissing  the  cold,  tremulous  lips 
of  the  poor  volunteer.  Then  Herbert  buried  his  face  in 
Margaret’s  bosom,  and  wept  like  a  child.  Love,  sorrow, 
shame,  disappointment,  discouragement,  and  a  great  joy 
which  was  yet  half  sadness  —  all  the  long-suppressed  feel¬ 
ings  of  his  soul  had  way,  in  that  passionate  burst  of  tears. 

On  reaching  the  house  of  Mr.  Neale,  Herbert  found  his 
mother  awaiting  him  with  open  arms,  and  weeping  with 
excess  of  grateful  happiness.  She  had  been  in  delicate 
health  for  some  months  past,  and  Margaret  had  taken  her 
home,  making  herself  the  nurse  and  almost  constant  com¬ 
panion  of  her  beloved  friend. 

Herbert  was  borne  atjDnce  to  his  chamber,  and  laid  upon 
a  bed  from  which  he  was  not  to  rise  for  a  weary  length  of 
time.  The  agitation  and  joy  of  his  return  were  too  much 
for  his  exhausted  frame.  He  suffered  a  relapse,  and  for 
many  weeks  lay  at  the  very  gates  of  death,  in  a  state  of 
utter,  blank  insensibility  and  childish  helplessness,  or  raving 
in  delirium  —  fighting  his  battles  over  again,  or  shrieking 
from  the  thirst  and  burning  fever  of  long  marches. 

But  through  all  this  painful  season,  there  was  one  fond, 
brave  heart  ever  near  him  —  one  friend,  faithful  and  strong 
in  a  love  mightier  than  madness,  or  death,  who  stood  beside 
him  in  ministering  kindness,  or  bent  above  him  in  prayerful 
watching.  In  hours  of  complete  prostration,  when  the  soul 
of  the  sufferer  slept  a  dull,  lethargic  sleep,  and  all  others 
despaired,  there  was  one  who  still  hoped  —  whose  fast  faith 
would  not  give  way  ;  and  in  those  hours  of  frenzy  when  his 
own  mother  shrunk  from  him  in  fear,  that  gentle,  yet 
courageous  one  would  fix  her  soft,  mild  eyes  upon  his,  with 
a  divine  spell  of  loving  power  ;  and, the  wondrous  soothing 
sweetness  of  her  voice  calmed  the  mad  tumult  in  his  brain, 
as  the  voice  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  once  stilled  the  tempest, 
and  smoothed  the  face  of  the  sea. 


116 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


As  Herbert  slowly  recovered,  he  was  like  a  child  in  his 
unquestioning  submission  to  Margaret,  and  in  his  dependence 
upon  her  for  courage  and  consolation.  But  after  a  while,  as 
memory  returned,  and  every  thing  came  back  to  him,  he 
began  to  shrink  with  shame  and  self-reproach  from  her 
kindness.  To  find  himself  thus  reduced  to  be  an  object  of 
mere  benevolent  interest  —  to  have  her  thus  compassionate 
and  care  for  him,  in  the  angelic  charity  of  her  nature,  after 
she  had  ceased  to  love  him,  was  indeed  the  bitterest  drop  in 
the  bitter  cup  he  had  been  called  upon  to  drain.  Pie 
pondered  long,  sadly,  and  with  burning  cheeks,  upon  this, 
and  as  day  after  day  he  walked  slowly  up  and  down  his 
chamber,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  his  friend  Mr.  McDonald, 
he  would  sternly  resolve  to  leave  the  hospitable  roof  of  Mr. 
Neale,  and  to  no  longer  tax  the  generous  kindness  of 
Margaret’s  forgiving  heart.  But  as  day  after  day  there 
would  come  a  gentle  rap  at  his  door,  and  Margaret  would 
enter,  to  inquire  after  his  health,  in  a  cheerful,  cordial  tone 
—  or  to  bring  him  some  delicacy  prepared  by  her  own 
hands  —  or  a  basket  of  fresh  flowers  —  or  to  read  to  him 
from  a  new  book,  or  passages  from  the  poets  who  had  been 
favorites  with  them  both  in  the  dear  old  time  —  what  wonder 
that  his  brave  resolves  failed  him,  were  utterly  forgotten  ? 

In  those  sweet  mornings,  as  he  reclined  on  his  luxurious 
sofa,  when  the  cold  light  of  the  winter  sunshine  fell  upon 
him  pleasantly,  as  warmed  by  passing  through  curtains  of 
rose,  with  his  head  leaning  on  his  mother’s  shoulder,  clasp¬ 
ing  her  thin,  white  hand  in  one  still  thinner  and  whiter,  but 
with  his  dark,  deep  eyes  fixed  on  another  face  than  hers, 
and  with  the  silver  waves  of  that  delicious  voice  flowing 
over  his  heart  and  soul  —  ah  !  what  wonder  that  he  had  not 
strength  with  which  to  20  forth  from  the  Paradise  into  which 
he  had  crept  shivering  and  sick,  forlorn  and  broken-hearted. 
But  fiercer  and  more  incessant  grew  the  struggle  in  his 
breast,  until  summoning  all  his  courage,  and  nerving  himself 
with  a  true  pride,  he  thus  wrote  to  Margaret : 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


117 


‘My  best  and  dearest  Friend:  I  know  that  I  should 
crave  forgiveness  for  once  again  addressing  yon  ;  but  on  your 
generosity  you  have  taught  me  to  rely  with  a  perfect  trust, 
which  you  will  not  harshly  construe  into  presumption. 

4 1  must  leave  you,  Margaret,  now  that  I  am  so  much  bet¬ 
ter.  I  must  return  with  my  mother  to  our  cottage  home, 
and  no  longer  be  a  tax  on  the  kindness  of  your  friends,  or 
subject  you  to  observation  and  idle  remark,  or  myself  to  the 
charge  of  unmanly  dependence. 

4 1  proudly  left  the  mistress  of  my  heart.  I  resigned,  for 
a  time,  her  love,  bestowed  upon  me  freely,  in  the  wondrous 
beneficence  of  her  great  nature,  for  the  mad  chance  of  win¬ 
ning  a  distinction  with  which  I  might  claim  it  as  an  equal  — 
and  I  return,  long  after  she  has  ceased  to  love  me,  return 
poor  and  unknown,  to  be  the  recipient  of  her  bounty,  the 
object  of  her  charities  —  to  owe  to  her  my  very  life.  Is  not 
the  measure  of  my  humiliation  full  ?  Is  not  my  penance 
accomplished  ?  Do  not  say  I  write  bitterly  ;  there  is  no 
bitterness  in  all  my  soul  towards  you.  I  accept  my  punish¬ 
ment  with  the  more  meekness,  almost  with  joy,  that  it  comes 
at  last  from  a  hand  so  beloved. 

4  For  all  your  angelic  goodness  I  dare  not  attempt  to  thank 
you.  The  world  has  no  language  through  which  to  convey 
to  your  heart  the  gratitude  of  mine.  But  it  will  find  its  way 
to  you,  in  hours  of  loneliness  and  silence,  and  breathe  into 
your  spirit  its  .  deep,  inarticulate  blessing  —  the  blessing  of 
one  ready  to  perish  —  lifted  by  your  hand  from  an  abyss  of 
humiliation  and  despair,  into  the  light  and  hope  of  a  better 
life.  Yes,  dear  Margaret,  a  higher  and  worthier  course  than 
I  have  yet  pursued  seems  opening  before  me.  1  am  re¬ 
solved  to  put  down  forever  that  imperious  and  arrogant 
ruling  spirit,  pride,  and  to  set  my  foot  on  that  gilded  form  of 
selfishness  called  ambition  —  for  to  these  did  1  not  sacrifice 
Heaven’s  divinest  good,  life’s  most  inestimable  blessing? 
Henceforth  I  will  speak  and  act  more  boldly  and  ardently 
for  the  great  principles  of  the  age,  for  justice  and  freedom, 


118 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


and  every  form  and  manifestation  of  God’s  eternal  truth, 
without  hope  of  favor,  and  without  fear  of  the  world.  I 
cannot  now  conceive  of  any  honor  or  reward  which  could 
tempt  me  to  renounce  a  faith,  or  a  purpose,  however  unpop¬ 
ular  it  might  be,  which  I  had  once  received  into  my  heart  — 
or  of  that  degree  of  moral  cowardice  which  would  cause 
me  to  shrink  from  the  advocacy  of  the  right,  were  hosts 
arrayed  against  it.  Dear  Margaret,  is  it  not  something  to 
have  come  to  this,  even  through  my  sore  disappointment, 
humiliation,  and  suffering,  from  that  dark  time  when  I  went 
forth  discrowned  of  your  love,  hopeless,  reckless,  and  de¬ 
fiant  ?  * 

‘  The  hardship  and  sickness  which  have  broken  down  my 
physical  constitution,  taken  the  youthful  glow  from  my 
cheek  and  the  light  from  my  eye,  and  rendered  me  the 
wreck  and  shadow  of  my  former  self,  have,  I  hope,  in  all 
humility,  given  health  to  my  spirit,  and  a  more  enduring 
strength  to  my  character.  I  have  been  taught  a  deeper  rev¬ 
erence  for  woman,  a  higher  estimate,  a  more  adoring  wor¬ 
ship  of  love —  even  that  love,  that  “pearl  of  great  price,” 
which  J,  like  a  perverse  and  reckless  child,  flung  from  me 
into  a  sea,  which  rendered  not  back  from  its  still  depths  the 
treasure  of  my  impoverished  soul. 

‘  Dear  Margaret,  I  was  never  worthy  of  your  love.  1 
loved  you  too  passionately  and  fitfully.  At  one  moment,  1 
would  bow  before  vOu  with  the  adoration  of  a  devotee  — 

j 

and  the  next,  stand  over  you  with  folded  arms  and  imperious 
brow.  I  rebelled  against  the  dominion  of  your  love,  when 
I  should  have  resigned  myself  to  it  as  to  an  angelic  influ¬ 
ence,  sent  to  surround  me  with  an  atmosphere  of  truth,  and 
peace,  and  real  greatness.  I  should  have  seen  that,  in  be¬ 
stowing  it  upon  me,  you  lifted  me  above  the  low  breath  of 
the  world,  and  made  me  your  companion  and  your  peer.  I 
should  have  felt,  through  all  my  soul,  that  he  upon  whose 
breast  had  dropped  your  queenly  head,  had  been  crowned 
with  a  glory  and  exalted  by  a  joy  to  which  all  the  honors 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


119 


and  pleasures  in  the  great  world’s  gift  were  poor  and  taste¬ 
less.  But  I  was  a  boy,  Margaret,  a  wayward,  thoughtless, 
and  short-sighted  boy,  whose  faults  you  have  long  since  for¬ 
given,  though  your  justice  and  womanly  dignity  condemned 
the  offender. 

4  I  hardly  know  why  I  have  written  this,  except  it  be  to 
reveal  to  you  what  suffering  and  your  goodness  have  done 
for  me.  I  go  forth  into  life  anew  —  not,  as  at  first,  leaping 
joyfully  forward,  as  to  run  a  merry  morning  course,  on  a 
festive  day  —  nor,  as  at  that  other  time,  when,  in  the  noon¬ 
tide  of  fiery  passion,  I  dared  mad  chances,  and  made  of 
existence  a  scene  of  fierce  conflict,  within  and  without.  It 
will  be,  henceforth,  like  a  night  journey,  shadowed  and 
somewhat  chill,  but  fresh,  and  lit  by  the  light  of  holy  stars, 
pure  hopes,  and  high  purposes  ;  they  come  forth  even  now, 
in  the  twilight  of  my  despondency,  are  rounding  into  dis¬ 
tinct  and  radiant  forms,  and  setting  their  bright  watch  for 
me  in  the  skies. 

4 1  know  that  my  repentance  and  good  resolves  come  too 
late.  I  know  that  it  is  at  the  eleventh  hour  that  I  go  to  do 
my  Master’s  work.  But  something  tells  me  that  He  will 
even  now  and  thus  accept  me ;  and  that  you,  who  have 
learned  of  Him,  will  have  faith  in  me,  and  bid  me  be  of 
good  cheer. 

4  And  now,  dear  sister  of  my  soul ,  farewell!  I  write  not 
the  word  as  once  I  Wrote  it,  half  in  love  and  half  in  bitter¬ 
ness  ;  but  with  most  reverential  tenderness,  and  the  deepest 
devotion  of  my  nature.  Do  not  think  me  hasty,  or  too  im¬ 
patient  to  be  free  from  the  obligations  you  have  laid  upon 
me.  I  am  so  much  better,  that  even  my  mother  says  I  shall 
be  quite  able  to  go  home  to-morrow.  The  blessings  of  the 
widow  and  her  son  —  her  son,  restored  to  her  from  the 
dead,  shall  remain  with  this  household  —  shall  rest  upon 
you,  dearest  Margaret. 


‘Herbert  Moore.’ 


120 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


For  the  half  hour  after  Herbert  had  sent  the  above  letter 
to  Margaret,  he  sat  in  his  cushioned  arm-chair,  by  the 
writing-table,  with  his  head  bowed  on  his  hands.  It  was 
evening,  and  there  was  a  pleasant  fire  on  the  hearth,  and 
the  whole  room  had  a  bright  and  cheerful  air.  But  Herbert 
was  sadder  and  lonelier  than  ever  —  his  breast  heaved  with 
suppressed  sighs,  while  a  few  large,  irrepressible  tears  slid 
through  the  emaciated  fingers  pressed  against  his  dark, 
sunken  eyes.  Some  one  rapped  timidly  at  the  door.  Her¬ 
bert,  thinking  it  a  servant,  called,  ‘  Come  in !  ’  and  did  not 
rise.  There  was  a  quick,  light  step  in  the  room,  and  look¬ 
ing  up,  Herbert  beheld  Margaret !  Before  he  could  rise  to 
meet  her,  she  was  kneeling,  half-playfully,  by  the  side  of 
his  chair,  her  fair  hand  laid  on  his  arm.  Her  beautiful  eyes 
were  swimming  in  tears,  soft,  reproachful  tears ;  but  a 
loving  and  joyful  smile  was  playing  about  her  bright  parted 
lips. 

‘And  so,’  she  said,  ‘you  would  dismiss  your  faithful 
nurse  !  Ah,  wilful  and  perverse  child,  what  mad  fancy  is 
this  ?  ’ 

4  But,  Margaret,  I  am  better,  nearly  well,  indeed,  and  so 
can  spare  you  as  a  nurse.’ 

‘  But,  Herbert,  I  cannot  spare  my  patient.’ 

‘Oh,  Margaret!’  cried  Herbert,  as  he  rose,  and  lifting 
her  from  her  kneeling  posture,  looked  earnestly  in  her  eyes, 

‘  tell  me  what  you  mean  by  those  words  —  they  are  too 
blessed  for  belief  —  I  reel  under  them  —  can  God  be  so 
good  to  me  ?  —  can  it  be  possible  that  you  love  me  once 
more  ?  5 

‘  Why,  Herbert,  I  have  never  ceased  to  love  you  through 
all ;  though,  had  you  returned  as  the  conquering  hero,  you 
would  never  have  known  of  this;  and  the  hand,  proudly 
demanded ,  would  have  been  yet  more  proudly  withheld. 
But  now,  I  glory  in  telling  you  that  you  still  possess  the  sole 
love  of  my  heart.  I  glory  in  your  worthiness,  in  your  noble 


THE  VOLUNTEER. 


121 


aspirations,  in  your  victory  over  self,  in  your  regeneration, 
and  all  I  am  and  have  is  yours,  yours  alone.’ 

‘  God  be  thanked  for  this  unspeakable  happiness  !  Oh, 
Margaret,  come  nearer  to  my  heart !  yet  nearer,  Margaret !  ’ 

A  slow  familiar  step  is  heard  in  the  hall  without,  and  the 
next  moment  there  enters  the  good  pastor. 

4  And  how  is  our  patient  to-night  ?  ’  he  asks  —  4  Ah  !  very 
much  better,  I  perceive.  Why,  I  have  not  seen  such  a 
bright  face  for  a  month.  What  sparkling  eyes?  and,  on 
my  word,  he  has  a  positive  color  !  ’ 

4  So  much  better  is  he,  father,’  says  Margaret,  smiling, 
4  that  he  grows  proud  and  independent,  and  talks  very  com¬ 
placently  of  dismissing  his  nurse.’ 

‘  But  only,’  answers  Herbert,  4  that  she  may  reappear  in 
another  character;  and,’  continued  he,  turning  to  Mr.  Mc¬ 
Donald,  4  on  you,  my  dear  sir,  I  must  depend  to  give  her 
back  to  me  in  that  new  and  better  character.’ 

4  With  all  my  heart,’  replies  the  minister,  on  whose  mind 
the  welcome  light  breaks  at  once.  4  But  what  says  my 
Maggie  to  this  ?  ’ 

But  vainly  he  questions  and  looks  around.  Margaret  is 
no  longer  in  -the  room.  The  door  is  ajar,  and  though  the 
light  fall  of  such  footsteps  may  not  be  heard,  down  the  dim 
hall  goes  the  gleam  of  a  white  dress,  and  the  door  of  a 
pleasant  chamber,  belonging  to  a  certain  dear  young  lady, 
is  opened  and  shut  quickly. 


11 


THE  POETRY  OF  WHITTIER.* 


Any  talk  about  these  poems  seems  most  uncalled  for  in  a 
journal  in  which  so  many  of  them  have  appeared,  and  whose 
readers  so  thoroughly  understand  and  appreciate  the  peculiar 
powers  and  excellences  of  the  author.  But  then,  again,  the 
columns  to  which  these  poems  first  gave  a  rare  and  attractive 
grace,  should  not  be  the  last  to  hail  and  chronicle  their  ap¬ 
pearance  in  a  more  enduring  form  —  and,  from  those  readers 
who  know  our  author  best,  we  are  assured  we  may  expect 
the  readiest  and  heartiest  respond  to  our  word  of  praise. 

Before  proceeding  with  our  article,  however,  we  will,  if 
we  may  be  indulged  in  so  unprecedented  a  digression,  give 
our  readers  a  glimpse  of  our  own  present  surroundings.  We 
are  on  the  seashore  —  the  rock-bound  coast  of  our  poet’s 
own  glorious  State.  It  is  the  sunniest  yet  softest  of  summer 
mornings,  when  the  glory  of  heaven  seems  descending  to  wed 
with  the  beauty  of  earth.  Between  us  and  the  ocean  stands 
a  dark  pine-grove,  but  beneath  and  between  the  long  branches 
swayed  by  the  fresh  morning  wind,  we  can  see  the  gleam 
and  dashing  of  the  waves,  and  the  sound  they  give  forth  as 
they  beat  against  the  rocks  comes  softened  and  rounded  to 
our  ear.  What  time  and  scene  could  be  chosen  so  in  har¬ 
mony  with  our  subject  —  the  poetry  of  the  volume  before 

*  Songs  of  Labor  and  other  Poems.  By  John  G.  Whittier.  Boston: 
Ticknor,  Reed,  &  Fields. 


THE  POETRY  OF  WHITTIER. 


123 


us! — now  fresh  and  invigorating  like  the  airs  of  morning, 
clear  and  cheering  as  the  summer  sunlight  —  now  mournful 
and  prophetic,  like  the  murmur  of  the  solemn  pines  —  and 
now  like  the  sea  itself,  rolling  in  upon  us  thought  after  thought 
of  large  volume  and  earnest  power.  In  times  of  peace  they 
come  calm  and  continuous,  with  a  steady,  shoreward  march, 
and  with  brightness  on  their  crests — but  when  heaven  is 
darkened  by  the  exhalations  of  earth’s  wrongs  and  ills,  when 
a  stiff  moral  breeze  is  up  and  blowing,  then  they  come 
dashing  and  surging,  flinging  their  spray  about,  and  making 
all  tremble  again  with  the  great  shock  of  their  meeting. 

The  poetry  of  Whittier  is  eminently  healthful  and  benefi¬ 
cent  in  its  spirit.  It  exalts  moral  truth  and  sanctifies  labor  — 
it  is  the  expression  of  a  great  humanity,  and  is  ever  in  truest 
harmony  with  nature.  More  perhaps  than  any  other  poet, 
Whittier  is  remarkable  for  the  obviousness  of  his  meaning 
and  the  directness  of  his  thought.  He  decorates  little  by 
gilding  or  garlanding,  and  conceals  nothing  in  mists  and 
shadows  —  he  never  loiters  by  the  way,  or  suffers  himself  to 
be  beguiled  into  pleasant  and  winding  bye-paths.  Fie  seldom 
seeks  to  address  our  highest,  most  cultivated  comprehension 

—  is  not  exclusively  the  companion  of  our  exalted  moods  — 
his  largest  thought  may  be  received  by  a  child  in  knowledge 

—  he  is  the  poet  of  every-day.  He  speaks  to  the  hearts  of 
the  people  a  language  they  never  fail  to  understand  —  stirring 
or  tranquillizing,  sweet  or  grand,  it  is  always  simple.  Flis 
thoughts  do  not  come  to  us  by  slow  and  subtle  ways  —  they 
flash  upon  us  —  we  meet  them  face  to  face,  and  we  say:  — 
‘Ah,  we  have  known  you  before!  —  in  a  dim,  unformed 
state  you  have  floated  around  us,  and  been  the  companions 
of  our  best  hours,  and,  though  you  have  taken  form  and 
new  beauty  since  then,  you  are  no  strangers.’ 

The  democratic  principles  of  our  poet  are  most  shown  in 
the  Songs  of  Labor  —  the  philanthropic  and  religious  in  the 
poems  which  follow  ;  but  all  are  characterized  by  an  ardent 
love  of  freedom,  a  deep  reverence  for  humanity,  and  a  great 


124 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


trust  in  God.  Never  were  poet’s  gifts  more  heartily  and 
unreservedly  consecrated  to  the  purposes  of  Heaven  and  the 
need  of  man.  Wherever  the  poet  may  find  himself — into 
whatever  realms  of  imagination  he  may  rise,  into  whatever 
depths  of  thought  he  may  descend  —  he  never  loses  himself 
in  the  mazes  of  vague  conjecture,  or  passes  beyond  the 
atmosphere  of  prayer  and  praise,  or  sinks  away  from  divine 
love  and  reliance,  and  the  bonds  of  human  fellowship  are 
ever  strong  upon  his  spirit.  It  is  his  intense  humanity  which 
makes  his  enthusiasm  so  contagious  and  inspiring.  We  read 
with  glowing  lips  and  kindling  eyes  —  our  thoughts  chime  to 
his  thoughts  —  our  hearts  seem  to  throb  to  the  measure  of 
his  verse,  and  leap  to  the  bold  outbursts  of  his  impassioned 
feeling.  But,  then,  his  poems  of  contemplation  and  senti¬ 
ment  have  about  them  an  indescribable  sweetness  —  a  sort 
of  Sabbath-quiet,  most  captivating  and  subduing.  They  suc¬ 
ceeded  his  stern  and  stormy  lyrics  of  freedom  and  reform, 
like  the  morning  song  of  birds  after  a  night  of  tempest.  01 
the  evening  harping  of  David  after  a  day  of  battle. 

But  it  is  time  we  spoke  of  the  volume  before  us  more  in 

detail. 

The  Dedication  is  one  of  the  sweetest  poems  in  the  book  ; 
yet  there  is  in  it  a  sort  of  half-mournful  acceptance  of  life 
which  saddens  us.  While  yet  in  the  prime  of  manhood,  with 
the  strength  and  heat  of  summer  in  his  heart,  and  its  generous 
fruits  around  him,  he  places  himself  amid  the  shadows  and 
scant  foliage,  and  pale  few  flowers  of  latest  autumn.  Thus  : 

‘  Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, 

The  o’er-sunned  bloom  of  summer’s  plain, 

And  paler  flowers  the  latter  rain 

Calls  from  the  westering  slope  of  life’s  autumnal  lea. 

‘Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth’s  enchanted  forest  stood, 

The  dry  and  wasting  roots  between, 

A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 

As  springs  the  pine  where  tails  the  gay-leaf  d  maple  wood  . 


THE  POETRY  OF  WHITTIER. 


125 


Now  this  is  very  beautiful,  but,  to  reverse  the  old  saying, 
there  is  in  it  1  less  truth  than  poetry.’  It  is  a  needless 
anticipation  —  a  taking  of  time  by  the  forelock  with  a 
most  uncalled-for  and  irreverent  haste.  The  poet  may  have 
commenced  his  descent  from  the  sun-bright  summit  of  life, 
but  while  he  fancies  himself  quite  under  the  hill,  he  is  yet  on 
the  first  slope,  where  the  light  is  still  golden,  though  more 
mellow  than  of  old  ;  the  flowers  warm  with  a  richer  than  the 
early  bloom,  and  where  the  abundant  fruits  of  thought,  labor, 
and  experience,  are  just  ripening  to  his  hand.  He  has  yet 
to  gird  on  the  arms  of  his  greatest  power  —  the  wells  of 
deepest  wisdom  and  the  fountains  of  refreshment  are  along 
his  future  way  —  a  way  that  broadens,  and  lengthens,  and 
does  not  grow  barren,  and  ‘  bleak,’  and  ‘  wintry,’  but  loses 
itself  in  light  and  rest,  not  in  shadow  and  tempest.  The 
great  and  faithful  soul  is  never  left  to  know  a  bare  and  cold 
and  desolate  season,  but  his  going  hence,  after  a  large  and 
earnest  life,  is  like  a  glad  and  triumphant  harvest-home  — 
when  he  goes  from  the  fields  whereon  he  has  toiled  in  wea¬ 
riness  or  in  hope,  in  sunshine  and  in  rain,  without  lingering 
and  without  haste,  and  when  like  generous  sheaves,  golden 
and  fully  ripe,  ‘  his  works  do  follow  him.’ 

Of  the  Songs  of  Labor,  we  know  not  which  to  praise  most; 
for,  in  speaking  of  them,  any  thing  less  than  praise  is  quite 
out  of  the  question.  Spirit  and  form  —  the  original  idea,  the 
scope  given  to  it  and  the  voice  in  which  it  is  heard,  all  gratify 
and  satisfy  us.  Perhaps  The  Huskers  is  the  most  ballad¬ 
like  and  picturesque,  but  about  all  the  others  there  is  the  true 
lyric  sound  and  swing  —  a  force  and  vitality  which  fill  one 
with  as  genuine  an  enthusiasm  for  honest  labor  as  the  lays 
of  Scott  ever  inspired  for  feats  of  arms  and  knightly  en¬ 
counters.  Yes,  all  honor  to  the  poet  who  has  thus  not  only 
assigned  to  4  hardy  toil’  the  attractive  grace  of  his  healthful 
sentiment,  and  the  beauty  of  Heaven’s  consecration,  through 
the  patient  labor  of  Jesus, 

‘  A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor.’ 

11* 


126 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


but  claimed  for  it  an  almost  royal  dignity  —  pride,  and 
courage,  and  heroic  endurance,  which  put  to  shame  the  pre¬ 
tensions  and  achievements  of  warriors. 

We  must  indulge  ourselves  in  extracting  a  few  favorite 
stanzas  from  The  Songs  of  Labor.  These  from  the  Ship¬ 
builders  strike  us  as  especially  spirited  and  beautiful : 

£  Ho  !  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free  ! 

Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 
The  young  bride  of  the  sea? 

Look !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now? 

How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 
Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  ! 

4  God  bless  her  !  wheresoe’er  the  breeze 
Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 

Beside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan  ! 

Where’er  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurl’d, 

She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 
Of  commerce  round  the  world !  ’ 

The  following  verse  from  the  Shoemakers  contains  a 
truth  sufficiently  well  known  to  some  women  and  all  poets  : 

‘  The  foot  is  yours  ;  where’er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well-wrought  leather, 

On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls, 

On  carpet  or  on  heather. 

Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 
Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's , 

As  Hebe’s  foot  bore  nectar  round 
Among  the  old  celestials!  ’ 

Here  is  a  vivid  home  picture  from  The  Drovers  : 

‘  When  snow-flakes  o’er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting  ; 

When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting  ; 


THE  POETRY  OF  WHITTIER. 


127 


While  in  fire-light  strong  and  clear 
Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 

To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear, 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen.’ 

Here  is  a  verse  from  The  Fisherman,  which  Campbell 
would  have  been  proud  to  own  : 

‘  Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below  ; 

Where  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 

Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  until  morn, 

A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn.’ 

We  have  always  considered  Whittier  the  happiest  of 
poets  in  scriptural  figures  and  allusions.  Here  is  one  from 
the  same  poem,  which  charmed  us  greatly  : 

‘  Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet 
And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 

From  our  fish,  as  in  olden  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come.’ 

In  The  Huskers  there  are  no  verses  that  we  can  well 
detach.  Its  quaint  and  delicious  pictures  are  seen  best  in  a 
gallery  by  themselves.  Yet  we  must  break  a  stanza,  to 
give  one  rare  and  pleasant  passage  : 

‘  Till  broad  and  red  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun  sunk  down  at  last, 

And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell ,  the  day  in  brightness  passed.' 

The  verse  following  may  be  given  entire  : 

‘  And  lo  !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on  meadow,  stream  and 
pond, 

Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky  set  all  afire  beyond, 

Slowly  o’er  the  Eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder  glory  shone, 

And  the  sunset  and  the  rnoonrise  were  mingled  into  one  !  ’ 

The  Lumbermen,  the  last,  is  perhaps  the  finest  poem  of 


128 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


the  series.  The  following  verse,  in  the  description  of  the 
mountain -land  where  toil  the  lumbermen  of  Maine,  is  one 
we  greatly  like  : 

‘  Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 
Than  the  Persian  weaves, 

And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 
Seem  the  fallen  leaves  ; 

And  a  music  wild  and  solemn 
From  the  pine-tree’s  height, 

-  Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 
On  the  winds  of  night.’ 

But  this  is,  after  all,  a  greater  verse,  for  in  so  few  lines  it 
impresses  us  with  a  moral  truth  and  delights  us  with  an 
exquisite  fancy :  ' 

‘  Cheerly  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 

Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre , 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance ! 

Strike  1  with  every  blow  is  given 
Freer  sun  and  sky, 

JhuL  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 
Looks  with  wondering  eye  !  ’ 

Among  the  poems  which  follow,  On  Receiving  an 
Eagle’s  Quill  from  Lake  Superior,  is  certainly  one  of 
our  chief  favorites.  It  is  a  succession  of  grand  pictures  — 
a  sort  of  panoramic  poem.  Next,  we  find  Memories  — 
earlier  written  than  the  other  we  have  mentioned,  but 
unsurpassed  by  any  in  sweetness  and  quiet  beauty. 

The  Legend  of  St.  Mark.  —  Ah,  from  no  poem  what¬ 
ever,  have  we  received  so  much  of  strength,  and  peace,  and 
heavenly  consolation  !  In  the  lone  and  weary  night-time  of 
the  spirit,  when  thick  darkness  walls  us  round  —  in  the 
hour  of  extremest  agony,  when  the  cry  of  the  forsaken  is 
breaking  from  our  lips  —  in  the  strife  with  wrong,  when  the 
arm  fails  and  the  heart  faints,  because  the  oppressor  is 
strong  and  the  wrong-doer  victorious  for  a  season,  what 


THE  POETRY  OF  WHITTIER. 


129 


wondrous  life  and  power,  what  renewals  of  the  early  faith, 
are  in  words  like  these  : 

‘  Unheard  no  burdened  heart’s  appeal 

Moans  up  to  God’s  inclining  ear;  » 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer’s  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God  ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 

Are  scattered  at  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower’s  fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 

His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain  ; 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 

Comes  shining  down  to  break  his  chain. 

O,  weary  ones  !  ye  may  not  see 

Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight , 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 

Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of  night. 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone 

With  sun-bright  watchers,  bending  low, 

That  Fear’s  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who  like  the  seer  of  old, 

Can  see  the  helper  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain  side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Send  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  theirhigh  place  of  faith  and  prayer.’ 

The  Well  of  Loch  Maree  is  a  poem  of  like  character  — 
bringing  strength  and  healing  from  the  primal  fountains  of 
life  to  whosoever  will  drink.  % 

The  tribute  to  his  noble  sister  is  one  of  the  few  glimpses 
which  the  poet,  has  given  us  of  his  home-relations  and 


130 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


■ 


affections  —  and,  perhaps,  for  that  reason  especially  charm¬ 
ing.  But  it  is  fine  poetry,  as  well  as  gentle  and  touching 
sentiment. 

Autumn  Thoughts,  from  4  Margaret  Smith’s  Journal,’  is 
a  quaint,  mournful,  and  most  musical  poem,  which  chimes 
on  one’s  ears  like  distant  vesper-bells. 

Elliott  and  Ichabod  form  a  most  striking  contrast  as 
they  stand  together  in  this  volume.  Both  are  elegiac  poems, 
but  that  on  Elliott  is  a  terrific  outburst  of  indignant  grief,  of 
fierce  and  fiery  sorrow,  which  is  more  a  defiance  than  a 
lament,  and  which  peals  out,  and  rings  and  rattles  like  a 
discharge  of  musketry  over  the  grave  of  the  Corn-Law 
Poet ;  while  the  Ichabod  is  a  low  and  solemn  dirge,  wailing 
for  shrouded  honor  and  perished  faith,  and  the  broken 
promise  of  a  lost  manhood.  There  are  strange  and  awful 
notes  in  the  requiem,  which  tell  you  that  the  death  was 
suicidal. 

This  wonderful  poem,  throughout  the  slow  march  of  its 
subdued  and  solemn  thought,  teaches  us  the  great  truth,  that 
genius,  however  lofty,  unsurrounded  and  unsustained  by  a 
rich  and  beneficent  life,  is  but  a  cold,  and  hard,  and  heaven- 
defying  attribute  —  a  tall  pillar  in  a  desert  of  sand,  giving 
no  shelter  and  casting  little  shade  —  a  rallying  point  for 
tempests  and  a  mark  for  the  lightning. 

A  bold  and  strong  poem  is  that  entitled  The  Men  of 
Old.  Of  like  character  is  The  Peace  Convention  at 
Brussels.  Then  follows  The  Wish  of  To-Day,  which 
once  read  must  hymn  on  in  the  heart  and  brain  ever  after. 
And  yet  it  is  the  simplest  of  poems  —  gentle  and  serious, 
sorrowful,  yet  earnest —  the  yearning  of  a  wreary  heart  for 
the  peace  which  the  world  cannot  give,  the  pleading  of  a 
contrite  spirit  —  the  consecration  of  a  life.  There  seem 
tears  upon  the  page,  and  low  sighs  breathe  along  the  lines. 
We  hear  only  the  meek  voice  of  resignation,  unquestioning 
and  unconditional.  We  see  no  longer  the  man  struggling 
and  resolving,  but  the  submissive  child,  yielding  his  will 


THE  POETRY  OF  WHITTIER. 


131 


wholly  and  forever,  and  hiding  his  tearful  face  in  the  bosom 
of  his  Father. 

Evening  in  Burmah  is  a  thoughtful  and  touching  poem, 
suggested  by  a  passage  in  one  of  the  letters  of  Henry 
Martyn,  the  heroic  young  missionary.  The  opening  stanza 
is  truly  grand : 

‘A  night  of  wonder!  piled  afar 

With  ebon  feet  and  crests  of  snow, 

Like  Himalaya’s  peaks,  which  bar 
The  sunset  and  the  sunset’s  star. 

From  half  the  shadowed  vale  below, 

Yolumed  and  vast  the  dense  clouds  lie, 

And  over  them  and  down  the  sky, 

Paled  in  the  moon ,  the  lightnings  go.' 

Seed  Time  and  Harvest,  brief  and  simple  as  it  is,  is  one 
of  those  poems  the  writing  of  which  is  God’s  worship ;  for 
it  embodies  that  spirit  of  ‘  grateful  service  ’  and  cheerful 
faith  which  is  most  acceptable  to  Him. 

The  last  poem  in  the  volume,  some  lines  to  a  friend,  On 
Receiving  a  Basket  of  Sea-mosses,  is  one  of  great  beauty 
and  suggestive  thought.  It  is  musical,  and  light  in  form, 
graceful  ‘and  fanciful,  yet  through  this,  as  through  the 
stronger  and  graver  poem  preceding,  flow's  the  reverent, 
religious  soul  of  the  poet  —  that  soul  which  is  never  so 
shadowed  by  the  mysteries  of  life,  or  so  roughened  by  its 
tempests,  that  it  may  not  reflect  heaven,  and  bear  its  eternal 

truths  like  stars  upon  its  bosom. 

And  now,  if  our  readers  will  indulge  us  in  a  few  more 
brief  comments,  we  will  leave  this  volume  to  their  own  con¬ 
sideration.  They  will  find  it,  for  a  collection  of  miscellaneous 
poems,  a  singularly  continuous  and  compact  volume.  Yet 
it  is  not  genius  violently  projected  in  one  only  direction  — 
there  are  various  channels,  but  one  ocean  to  his  thoughts. 
Here  are  changes,  and  varieties  and  phases  of  feeling,  but  a 
certain  conscientious  earnestness  pervades  and  permeates 
the  entire  work.  There  is  in  it  little  of  the  poetry  of  fancy, 


132 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


none  of  passion,  except  it  be  moral  passion,  and  in  no  in¬ 
stance  is  strength  or  purpose  sacrificed  to  the  mere  love  of 
the  beautiful.  Indeed,  beauty  seems  rather  to  find  expres¬ 
sion  incidentally,  and  unavoidably,  than  to  be  the  aim  and 
intention  of  the  poet.  Mr.  Whittier  has  a  hearty  detestation 
of  all  cant  and  sentimentalism,  and  his  poetry  is  refreshing¬ 
ly  free  from  the  mist  and  mysticism  of  the  transcendental 
school,  and  the  sublime  guess-work  of  metaphysics.  We 
are  mistaken  if  he  ever  makes  extensive  explorations  into 
the  spiritual  world  :  he  is  no  seer  of  visions,  or  dreamer 
of  dreams,  and  his  prophecies  are  given  more  as  interpre¬ 
tations  of  the  will  of  Heaven,  and  clear  expositions  of  the 
immutable  laws  of  God,  than  as  new  and  special  revelations. 
Nor  does  he  pass  into  and  search  through  the  human  soul, 
with  the  lamp  of  his  luminous  thought,  but  rather  stands 
before  it,  and  calls  on  its  powers  and  aspirations  to  come 
forth,  ‘  as  one  having  authority.’  It  may  be  that  in  his  firm 
grasp  on  the  real,  our  poet  too  often  suffers  to  escape  him 
the  ethereal  and  fleeting  forms  of  the  ideal.  In  his  verse 
the  intellect  is  always  felt,  in  strong  vigorous  strokes  —  the 
heart  beats  through  it — it  has  blood  and  bone  and  muscle, 
but  the  divine  and  wondrous  mysteries  of  the  spirit  find  in 
it  more  unfrequent  and  imperfect  expression.  It  leads  us 
into  a  garden,  green  and  pleasant  with  the  foliage  and  flow¬ 
ers  and  fruits  of  nature,  and  bright  with  a  clear  morning 
sunlight,  rather  than  gives  us  torch-light  glimpses  of  spirit¬ 
ual  abysses,  of  caverns  hung  with  strange  gems,  half  in 
deepest  night  and  half  intolerable  brightness.  It  is  not 
poetry  for  the  few  —  the  learned  and  refined  alone ;  nor  are 
we  called  by  it  as  by  ancient  song  to  recline  on  the  mount 
of  the  gods,  and  partake  their  delicate  and  intoxicating 
food.  On  a  holier  mount,  and  following  a  diviner  example, 
stands  the  Christian  poet,  the  poet  of  the  people,  and  breaks 
the  bread  of  the  poor,  and  feeds  the  famishing  multitude. 


THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

;  What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 

Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower, 

Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower  1 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 

Your  melancholy  sweet  and  frail 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo  flower'?  ’  —  Tennyson. 

Frederic  Preston  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  respectable 
merchant,  in  one  of  the  most  important  seaport  towns  of 
New  England.  He  was  a  young  man  of  fine  personal 
appearance,  a  warm  and  honorable  heart,  and  a  spirit 
singularly  brave  and  adventurous.  From  his  boyhood  his 
inclinations  had  led  him  to  a  sea-faring  life,  and  at  the  age 
of  twenty-six,  when  he  is  presented  to  the  reader,  he  had 
already  made  several  voyages  to  the  East  Indies,  as  super¬ 
cargo  in  the  employ  of  the  house  in  which  his  father  was  a 
partner.  He  was  now  at  home  for  a  year,  awaiting  the 
completion  of  a  vessel,  which  was  to  trade  with  Canton,  and 
which  he  was  to  command. 

Preston  had,  for  all  his  love  of  change  and  adventure,  a 
taste  for  literature  —  always  taking  a  well  selected  library 
with  him  on  his  long  voyages  —  was  even,  for  one  of  his 
pursuits,  remarkable  for  scholarly  attainments ;  yet,  he 
sometimes  wearied  of  books  and  study,  and,  as  he  had 
12 


134 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


little  taste  for  general  society,  often  found  the  time  drag 
heavily  in  his  shore-life.  Thus  it  was  that  he  one  day 
cheerfully  accepted  the  invitation  of  his  mother  to  accom¬ 
pany  her  to  a  school  examination,  in  which  his  sister  was  to 
take  a  part. 

Our  young  gentleman  was  shown  a  seat  in  front,  near  the 
platform  on  which  were  arranged  the  4  patient  pupils  ’  — 
4  beauties,  every  shade  of  brown  and  fair.’ 

He  gazed  about  rather  listlessly  for  a  while,  but  at  length 
his  attention  became  fixed  on  a  young  lady  who  stood  at  the 
black-board,  proving  with  great  elegance  and  precision  a 
difficult  proposition  in  Euclid.  He  was  observing  the  ad¬ 
mirable  taste  of  her  dress,  the  delicacy,  and  willowy  grace 
of  her  figure,  when  suddenly,  while  raising  her  arm  in 
drawing  a  diagram,  a  small  comb  of  shell  dropped  from  her 
head,  and  a  rich  mass  of  hair  fell  over  her  shoulders. 

And  such  hair !  it  was  wondrously  luxuriant,  not  precisely 
curly,  but  rippling  all  through  with  small  glossy  waves,  just 
ready  to  roll  themselves  into  ringlets,  and  of  that  peculiar, 
indescribable  color,  between  a  brown  and  a  bright  auburn. 

Preston,  who  felt  that  the  possessor  of  such  magnificent 
hair  must  be  beautiful,  waited  impatiently  for  a  sight  at  the 
face  of  the  fair  geometrician;  but,  without  turning  her 
head,  she  stepped  quietly  back,  took  up  the  comb,  quickly 
re-arranged  her  hair,  and  went  on  with  her  problem.  It  was 
not  till  this  was  finished,  and  she  took  her  seat  among  the 
other  pupils,  that  Preston  had  a  full  view  of  her  face.  Pie 
was  more  keenly  disappointed  than  he  would  have  acknow¬ 
ledged,  when  he  saw  only  plainness,  in  place  of  the  beauty 
he  so  confidently  expected.  Yet  Dora  Allen  was  by  no 
means  disagreeably  plain ;  her  features  were  regular  and 
her  complexion  extremely  fair.  She  was  only  thin,  wan, 
and  somewhat  spiritless  in  appearance.  Her  face  was 
4  sickbed  o’er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought  ’  —  with  thought 
her  young  eye  seemed  shadowed,  her  brow  burdened.  But 
there  was  a  sweet  and  lovable  spirit  looking  out  from  the 


THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT. 


135 


depth  of  those  dreamy  eyes,  and  hovering  about  those  quiet 
and  almost  colorless  lips,  which  told  the  observer  that  her 
rare  intellectual  attainments  had  not  stood  in  the  way  of  her 
simple  affections,  to  hinder  their  generous  development. 

Frederic  Preston  liked  Dora  Allen’s  face  somewhat  better 
as  he  regarded  it  more  closely,  and  when,  at  the  close  of  the 
exercises,  this  young  lady  was  called  forward  to  receive  the 
highest  honors  of  the  institution  —  when  she  advanced 
timidly,  and  bowed  modestly,  to  be  crowned  with  a  wreath 
of  rose-buds  and  lilies  of  the  valley,  while  a  sudden  flush 
kindled  in  her  cheek,  flowed  into  her  quivering  lips,  and 
illuminated  her  whole  countenance,  she  grew  absolutely 
beautiful  in  his  eyes. 

Our  hero  was  not  sorry  to  learn  that  Miss  Allen  was  the 
most  intimate  friend  of  his  sister  Anna,  from  whom  he  soon 
ascertained  that  she  was  an  orphan,  within  a  few  years  past, 
adopted  by  an  uncle,  a  clergyman  of  the  place  —  that  she 
was  about  eighteen,  —  of  an  amiable,  frank,  and  noble  dis¬ 
position,  yet  chiefly  distinguished  for  her  fine  intellectual 
endowments  and  studious  habits. 

I  will  not  dwell  on  what  my  shrewd  reader  already 
anticipates — the  love  and  marriage  of  Frederic  Preston  and 
Dora  Allen.  I  will  not  dwell  on  the  sad  parting  scene, 
when,  within  six  months  from  ‘  the  happiest  day  of  his  life,’ 
Captain  Preston  set  sail  for  Canton,  his  brave  spirit  strangely 
cast  down,  the  once  gay  light  of  his  eyes  quenched  in  tears, 
and  with  a  long  tress  of  rich  auburn  hair  lying  close  against 
his  heart. 

On  account  of  some  business  arrangements  which  he 
was  to  make  at  Canton,  he  must  be  absent  somewhat  more 
than  two  years.  He  desired  greatly  to  take  his  young  wife 
with  him,  but  feared,  from  knowing  her  delicate  organiza¬ 
tion,  that  she  could  not  endure  the  voyage.  He  left  her  in  a 
pretty  cottage-home,  which  he  himself  had  fitted  up  for  her, 
in  sight  of  the  harbor. 

Dora  had  living  with  her  a  widowed  elder  sister,  whose 


136 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


society  and  assistance  were  much  comfort  to  her,  in  her 
otherwise  most  lonely  lot. 

Among  the  many  letters  which  Captain  Preston  received 
from  his  loving  and  constant  wife  during  his  absence,  there 
was  one  which  he  read  with  peculiar  joy  —  with  tears  of 
grateful  emotion.  For  this  was  not  alone  from  the  bride  of 

o 

his  bosom,  but  from  the  mother  of  his  child.  Thus  wrote 
Dora  : 

‘  Our  boy  is  four  weeks  old  to-day,  and  my  heart  is 
already  gladdened  by  his  striking  resemblance  to  you, 
dearest.  He  has  your  fine  olive  complexion,  your  large 
black  eyes,  and  dark,  curling  hair.  I  call  him  brecleric ,  and 
have  great  joy  in  often  repeating  the  beloved  name.’ 

It  was  early  on  an  April  morning  that  the  merchantman 

4  Bay  State  ’  came  into  -  harbor.  Scarcely  waiting 

for  daylight,  Captain  Preston  took  his  way  homeward.  He 
found  only  Mrs.  Mason,  his  sister-in-law,  up  ;  but  received 
from  her  happy  greeting  the  assurance  that  all  was  well. 
With  his  heart  on  his  lips,  he  softly  stole  up  to  Dora’s 
favorite  room,  a  pleasant  chamber  which  looked  out  on  the 
sea.  He  entered  and  reached  her  bedside  unheard.  She 
was  yet  sleeping,  and  Frederic  observed  that  her  hair  had 
escaped  from  her  pretty  muslin  cap,  and  was  floating  over 
her  neck  and  bosom  — then  looking  closer,  he  saw  peering 
through  it  two  mischievous  black  eyes — a  pair  of  bright, 
parted  lips  —  a  rosy,  chubby,  dimpled  little  face  —  yes, 
caught  his  first  view  of  his  infant  boy  through  a  veil  of  the 
mother’s  beautiful  hair.  Then,  with  a  light  laugh,  he  bent 
down,  clasped  them  both,  calling  their  names,  and  in  a 
moment  seemed  to  hold  all  heaven  in  his  arms. 


THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT. 


137 


CHAPTER  II. 

‘  I  see  her  now  —  I  kneel  —  I  shriek  — 

I  clasp  her  vesture  —  but  she  fades,  still  lades  ; 

And  she  is  gone ;  sweet  human  love  is  gone  ! 

’T  is  only  when  they  spring  to  Heaven  that  angels 

Reveal  themselves  to  you.’  —  Browning. 

» 

From  that  time  the  voyages  of  Captain  Preston  were  not 
so  long  as  formerly,  and  he  often  spent  many  months,  some 
times  a  year  or  two,  with  his  family.  He  frequently  spoke 
of  resigning  his  sea-faring  life  altogether,  but  was  ever 
concluding  that  he  was  not  yet  in  a  situation  to  render  the 
step  a  prudent  one  for  his  business  interests.  Finally,  when 
he  had  been  about  fifteen  years  married,  he  set  out  on  what 
he  intended  and  promised  his  family  should  be  his  last 
voyage.  He  was  at  this  time  the  father  of  three  children ; 
the  son,  of  whom  we  have  spoken,  a  healthful,  high-spirited 
boy ;  and  two  daughters,  Pauline  and  Louise  —  the  first 
greatly  resembling  her  father,  the  second  very  like  the 
mother. 

Captain  Preston  was  pained  to  leave  his  gentle  wife,  look¬ 
ing  paler  and  more  thin  than  usual,  and  to  observe,  for  she 
said  nothing  of  it,  that  she  was  troubled  with  a  slight  cough. 
Yet  he  was  of  a  most  hopeful  spirit,  and  even  as  he  heard 
her  low  voice,  and  saw  her  faint  smile,  so  much  sadder  than 
tears,  he  trusted  that  the  coming  summer  would  bring  her 
health  and  more  cheerful  spirits. 

Mrs.  Preston  had  usually  a  remarkable  control  over  her 
painful  emotions,  and  was  peculiarly  calm  in  all  seasons  of 
trial ;  but  at  this  parting  she  clung  long  and  closely  about 
her  husband’s  neck  —  it  seemed  that  she  could  not  let  him 
go.  She  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom,  and  wept  and  sobbed 
in  irrepressible  anguish. 

At  last,  unwinding  her  fond  arms,  he  resigned  her,  half- 
fainting,  to  the  care  of  her  sister,  hastily  embraced  his 
12* 


138 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


children,  and  rushed  from  the  house.  He  heard  his  name 
called  in  a  wild,  pleading  voice,  yet  he  dared  not  look  back, 
but  ran  down  the  long  garden-walk,  and  paused  not  till  he 
had  reached  the  road.  He  lifted  his  eyes  to  that  pleasant 
window  looking  out  on  the  sea,  and  there  stood  Dora, 
weeping  and  waving  her  slender  white  hand.  He  drew  his 
cap  over  his  eyes,  turned  again,  and  hastened  down  to  the 
harbor. 

During  this  last  absence,  Captain  Preston  received  but  one 
letter  from  his  wife  —  but  this  was  very  long — a  sort  of 
journal,  kept  through  the  spring  and  summer  succeeding  his 
departure.  In  all  this,  though  Dora  wrote  most  pleasantly  of 
home  affairs,  and  very  particularly  of  the  children,  she  made 
no  mention  of  the  state  of  her  own  health,  and  this  he 
knew  not  whether  to  regard  as  matter  of  assurance  or 
apprehension. 

At  length  he  was  on  his  homeward  voyage  —  was  fast 
approaching  his  native  shores.  Never  had  he  looked  forward 
to  reaching  port  with  such  eager,  boyish  impatience  — 
never  had  his  weary  heart  so  longed  for  the  rest  and  joy  of 
home. 

But  a  severe  storm  came  up,  drove  them  off  their  course, 
and  kept  them  beating  about,  so  that  for  some  days  they 
made  no  headway.  One  night  —  it  was  a  Sabbath  night  — 
Captain  Preston  completely  exhausted,  flung  his  cloak  around 
him,  and  threw  himself  down  on  the  cabin-floor  for  a  little 
rest,  for  he  could  not  lie  in  his  berth.  It  was  full  midnight 
—  his  eyes  closed  heavily  at  once  —  he  was  fast  falling  into 
sleep,  when  he  thought  he  heard  his  name  called  very  softly, 
but  in  a  tone  which  pierced  to  the  deeps  of  his  heart.  He 
looked  up,  half  raising  himself,  and  Dora  was  before  him  ! 
Yes,  his  own  Dora,  it  seemed,  with  her  own  familiar  face, 
still  sweet  and  loving  in  its  looks,  though  it  seemed  strangely 
glorified  by  the  shining  forth  of  a  soft,  inward  light.  Again 
she  spoke  his  name,  drew  nearer,  and  bent  down,  as  though 
to  kiss  his  forehead.  He  did  not  feel  the  pressure  of  her  lips, 


THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT. 


139 


but  he  looked  into  the  eyes  above  him  —  her  own  dear  eyes, 
and  read  there  a  mournful,  unspeakable  tenderness — a 
divine  intensity,  an  eternity  of  love.  He  reached  out  his 
arms  and  called  her  name  aloud  ;  but  she  glided,  faint  smil¬ 
ing,  from  his  fond  embrace —  the  blessed  vision  faded,  and 
he  was  alone — alone  in  the  dim  cabin  of  a  storm-rocked 
vessel,  with  the  tempest  shrieking  through  the  cordage,  with 
the  black  heights  of  a  midnight  heaven  above,  and  the 
blacker  depths  of  a  boiling  sea  below. 

Frederick  Preston  did  not  sleep  that  night.  In  spite  of  all 
the  efforts  of  his  reason,  his  heart  was  racked  with  anxiety, 
or  oppressed  with  a  mortal  heaviness. 

In  the  course  of  the  following  day  the  storm  abated,  and 
they  afterwards  crowded  all  sail  for  land  ;  yet  it  was  a  week 

ere  they  cast  anchor  in - harbor.  It  was  ten  o’clock  at 

night,  and  Captain  Preston  was  immediately  rowed  to  shore. 
Without  waiting  to  speak  to  any  one,  he  hurried  up  the  road 
towards  his  cottage.  As  he  drew  near  the  bend  in  the  road, 
by  the  clump  of  pines,  he  said  to  himself  that  if  all  were 
well  at  home,  there  would  surely  be  a  light  shining  from  that 
window  of  Dora’s  chamber  looking  out  on  the  sea.  But  as 
he  came  in  full  view,  he  paused,  and  dared  not  look  up, 
while  the  thick,  high  beating  of  his  heart  seemed  almost  to 
suffocate  him.  At  last,  chiding  himself  for  this  womanish 
weakness,  he  raised  his  eyes —  and  all  was  dark  ! 

He  hardly  knew  how  after  this  he  made  his  way  up  the 
garden  walk,  to  the  cottage,  nor  how,  when  finding  it  all 
closed,  he  still  had  strength  to  go  on  to  his  father’s  house, 
where  he  was  received  with  many  tears,  by  his  parents,  his 
sisters,  and  his  children.  The  deep  mourning  dress  of  the 
whole  sad  group  told  of  itself  the  story  of  his  desolation. 
For  some  time,  he  neither  spoke  nor  wept,  but  supported  by 
his  father,  and  leaning  his  head  on  his  mother’s  breast,  he 
swayed  back  and  forth,  while  his  deep,  incessant  groans 
shook  his  strong-  frame,  and  burdened  all  the  air  about  him. 
Finally,  in  a  scarce  audible  voice,  he  asked  : 


140 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


‘  When  did  she  go,  mother?  ’ 

‘  Last  Sunday,  near  midnight,  my  son.’ 

‘  Thank  God,  it  was  she,  then !  I  saw  her  last !  She 
came  to  me —  her  blessed  angel  came  to  bid  me  farewell. 
Oh,  that  divine  love  which  could  not  die  with  thee,  Dora, 
Dora  !  ’ 

Then  with  a  light  over  his  face,  which  was  almost  a  smile, 
he  turned  to  his  poor  children,  gathered  them  to  his  embrace, 
and  wept  with  them. 

Mrs.  Preston,  who,  as  we  have  said,  had  ever  been  fragile 
and  delicate,  had  at  last  died  of  a  rapid  decline.  She  had 
been  confined  to  her  room  but  a  few  weeks,  and  to  her  bed 
scarcely  a  day.  She  passed  away  with  great  tranquillity  of 
spirit,  though  suffering  much  physical  pain.  Her  children 
were  with  her  at  the  last,  and  her  patient  serenity,  and  holy 
resignation,  seemed  to  repress  the  passionate  outbursts  of 
their  childish  grief  till  all  was  over. 

It  was  not  until  some  time  had  passed  that  Captain  Preston 
felt  himself  able  to  open  a  large  package  placed  in  his 
hands  by  his  mother,  and  which  Dora  had  left  for  him  — 
sealed  up  and  directed  with  her  own  hand,  the  very  day 
before  she  died. 

At  length,  seeking  his  own  now  desolate  home,  and  shut¬ 
ting  himself  up  in  that  dear  familiar  chamber,  with  the 
pleasant  window  looking  out  on  the  sea  —  there  where  he 
had  seen  her  last  —  where  she  had  breathed  out  her  pure 
spirit  —  where  her  form  had  lain  in  death  —  there  he  lifted 
his  heart  to  God  for  strength,  kissed  the  seal  and  broke  it. 
Before  him  lay  a  rich  mass  of  dark  auburn  hair  —  Dora’s 
beautiful  hair  !  With  a  low  cry,  half  joy,  half  pain,  he 
caught  it,  pressed  it  to  his  lips  and  heart,  and  bedewed  it 
with  his  abundant  tears.  Suddenly  he  observed  that  those 
long,  bright  tresses  were  wound  about  a  letter — a  letter 
addressed  to  him  in  Dora’s  own  familiar  hand.  He  sank 
into  a  seat,  unfolded  the  precious  missive,  and  read  —  what 
will  be  given  in  the  chapter  following. 


THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT. 


141 


CHAPTER  III. 

‘  Earth  on  my  soul  is  strong  —  too  strong  — 

Too  precious  is  its  chain, 

*  All  woven  of  thy  love,  dear  friend, 

Yet  vain  —  though  mighty  —  vain  ! 

A  little  while  between  our  hearts 
The  shadowy  gulf  must  lie, 

Yet  have  we  for  their  communing 

Still,  still  eternity/  Hemans. 

THE  LETTER. 

‘  Frederic,  my  dearest  —  pride  of  my  heart  —  love  of  my 
youth  —  my  husband  !  A  sweet,  yet  most  mournful  task  is 
mine,  to  write  to  you  words  which  you  may  not  read  until 
my  voice  is  hushed  in  the  grave  —  till  the  heart  that  prompts 
is  cold  and  pulseless  —  till  the  hand  that  traces  is  mouldering 
into  dust.  Yes,  I  am  called  from  you  —  from  our  children 

—  and  you  are  not  near  to  comfort  me  with  your  love  in  this 
dark  .season.  But  I  must  not  add  to  your  sorrow  by  thus 
weakly  indulging  my  own.  Though  it  may  not  be  mine  to 
feel  your  tender  hand  wiping  the  death-dew  from  my  brow 

—  though  I  may  not  pant  out  my  soul  on  your  dear  breast, 
nor  feel  your  strong,  unfailing  love  sustaining  me  as  I  go  — 
yet  I  shall  not  be  all  forsaken,  nor  grope  my  way  in  utter 
darkness  ;  but,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  our  Redeemer,  descend 
into  “  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death.” 

‘  And  now,  dearest,  I  would  speak  to  you  of  our  children, 
our  children,  of  whose  real  characters  it  has  happened  that 
you  know  comparatively  little.  I  would  tell  you  of  my 
hopes  and  wishes  concerning  them  —  would  speak  with  all 
the  mournful  earnestness  of  a  dying  mother,  knowing  that 
you  can  well  understand  the  mighty  care  at  my  heart. 

c  There  is  Frederic,  our  first-born,  our  bright-eyed,  open- 
browed  boy,  almost  all  we  could  desire  in  a  son.  I  resign 
him  into  your  hands  with  much  joy,  pride,  and  hope.  Even 
were  my  life  to  be  spared,  my  work  in  his  education  were 


142 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


now  nearly  done.  I  have  had  much  happiness  in  remarking 
his  talent,  his  enthusiasm,  his  fine  physical  organization,  his 
vigorous  health,  his  gay,  elastic  spirits  —  and  far  more  in 
being  able  to  believe  him  perfectly  honest  and  truthful  in 
character.  Oh,  my  husband,  can  we  not  see  in  him  the  germ 
of  a  noble  life,  the  possible  of  a  glorious  destiny  ? 

4  Yes,  Frederic  has  some  faults,  clear  even  to  my  sight.  I 
think  him  too  ambitious  of  mere  greatness,  of  distinction  as 
an  end ,  rather  than  as  the  means  of  attaining  some  higher 
good.  Teach  him,  dear  husband,  that  such  ambition  is  but 
a  cold  intellectual  selfishness,  or  a  fever  thirst  of  the  soul  ;  a 
blind  and  headlong  passion  that  miserably  defeats  itself  in  the 
end.  Teach  him  that  the  immortal  spirit  should  here  seek 
honor  and  wealth  only  as  means  and  aids  in  fulfilling  the 
purest  and  holiest,  and  therefore  the  highest  purposes  of  our 
being  :  to  do  good  —  simple  good  —  to  leave  beneficent 44  foot¬ 
prints  on  the  sands  of  time  ”  —  to  plant  the  heaven-flower, 
happiness,  in  some  of  life’s  desolate  places  —  to  speak  true 
words,  which  shall  be  hallowed  in  human  hearts  —  strong 
words,  which  shall  be  translated  into  action,  in  human  lives. 
And  oh  !  teach  him  what  I  have  ever  earnestly  sought  to 
inspire  —  a  hearty  devotion  to  the  right  —  a  fervent  love  of 
liberty  —  a  humble  reverence  for  humanity.  Teach  him  to 
yield  his  ready  worship  to  God’s  truth,  wherever  he  may 
meet  it — followed  by  the  multitude  strewing  palm-branches, 
or  forsaken,  denied,  and  crucified.  Teach  him  to  honor  his 
own  nature  by  a  brave  and  upright  life,  and  to  stand  for 
justice  and  freedom  against  the  world. 

4 1  have  seen  with  joy  that  Frederic  has  an  utter  aversion 
to  the  society  of  fops,  spendthrifts,  and  skeptics.  I  believe 
that  his  moral  principles  are  assured,  his  religious  faith  clear. 
Yet  I  fear  that  he  is  sometimes  too  impressible,  too  passive 
and  yielding.  His  will  needs  strengthening,  not  subduing. 
Teach  him  to  be  watchful  of  his  independence,  to  guard 
jealously  his  manliness.  I  know  that  I  need  not  charge  you 
to  infuse  into  his  mind  a  true  patriotic  spirit,  free  from  cant 


THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT. 


143 


and  bravado  —  to  counsel  him  against  poor  party  feuds  and 
narrow  political  prejudices.  God  grant  that  you  may  live  to 
see  our  son,  if  not  one  of  the  world’s  great  men,  one  whose 
pure  life  shall  radiate  good  and  happiness  —  whose  strong 
and  symmetrical  character  shall  be  a  lesson  of  moral  a-reat- 

*  o 

ness,  a  type  of  true  manhood. 

4  Our  daughter  Pauline  is  a  happy  and  healthful  girl,  with 
a  good,  though  by  no  means  a  great  intellect.  She  has  a 
dangerous  dower  in  her  rare  beauty,  and  I  pray  you,  dear 
Frederic,'  teach  her  not  to  glory  in  that  perishing  gift.  She 
is  not,  I  fear,  utterly  free  from  vanity,  and  she  is  sometimes 
arrogant  and  wilful.  I  have  even  seen  her  show  a  conscious¬ 
ness  of  her  personal  advantages  toward  her  less  favored 
sister.  You  will  seek  to  check  this  imperiousness,  to  subdue 
this  will  —  but  not  with  severity,  for,  with  all,  Pauline  is 
warm-hearted  and  generous.  You  know  that  she  is  tall  for 
her  age,  and  is  fast  putting  away  childish  things.  It  will  not 
be  long  now  before  as  a  young  lady  she  will  enter  society. 
I  surely  need  not  charge  you  to  be  ever  near  her  —  to  watch 
well  lest  a  poor  passion  for  dress  and  a  love  of  admiration 
invade  and  take  possession  of  her  mind,  lowering  her  to  the 
heartless  level  of  fashionable  life  ;  to  teach  her  to  despise 
flatterers  and  fops  —  to  shrink  from  the  ostentatious,  the 
sensual,  the  profane,  the  scoffing  and  unbelieving.  I  feel 
assured  that  you  will  imbue  her  spirit  with  your  own  rever¬ 
ence  for  honest  worth,  and  your  own  noble  enthusiasm  for 
truth  and  the  right  —  an  enthusiasm  never  lovelier  than  when 
it  lights  the  eye  and  glows  on  the  lips  of  a  lovely  woman. 

1  For  my  daughter  Louise,  our  youngest,  I  have  most 
anxiety,  for  she  seems  to  have  inherited  my  own  physical 
delicacy,  and  has  moreover  an  intense  affectionateness  and 
a  morbid  sensibility,  which  together  are  a  misfortune.  Dear 
husband,  deal  gently  with  this  poor  little  girl  of  mine,  for  to 
you  I  will  confess  that  at  this  hour  she  lies  nearest  my  heart. 
Her  whole  nature  seems  to  overflow  with  love  for  all  about 
her,  but  the  sweet  waters  are  ever  being  embittered  by  the 


144 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


feeling  that  she  is  not  herself  an  object  of  pride,  scarcely  of 
affection,  to  us.  She  is  very  plain,  you  know  —  yet,  look  at 
her,  she  is  not  ugly  —  her  plainness  is  that  of  languor  and  ill 
health.  Poor  Louise  is  seldom  well,  though  she  never  com- 
“plains,  except  mutely,  through  her  pallor  and  weakness. 
She  also  inherits  from  me  an  absorbing  passton  for  reading 
and  study,  and  perhaps  you  will  think  it  strange  in  me  when 
I  call  upon  you,  earnestly  entreat  you,  to  thwart  and  over¬ 
come  this,  if  possible  —  not  forcibly,  nor  suddenly,  but  by 
substituting  other  pleasures  and  pursuits  —  thus  turning  the 
current  of  her  thoughts. 

‘  Though  I  do  not  remember  to  have  ever  been  very 
strong,  yet  I  do  not  think  that  I  had  at  the  first  any  disease 
in  my  constitution.  Yet  what  was  the  course  pursued  in  my 
training  ?  It  was  unfortunately  discovered  that  I  was  a 
genius ,  and  so  I  was  early  put  to  study  ;  my  young  brain 
stimulated  into  unhealthy  action,  the  warm  blood  driven 
from  my  cheek  and  lip,  the  childish  light  quenched  in  my 
eye,  by  a  thoughtful  and  sedentary  life.  I  wasted  long 
bright  mornings  over  books,  when  I  should  have  been  riding 
over  the  hills,  or  frolicking  with  the  waves  —  rambling 
through  the  healthful  pine  woods,  or  fishing  from  the  rocks, 
inhaling  the  invigorating  ocean  breezes.  And  sweet  even¬ 
ings,  instead  of  strolling  abroad  in  the  summer  moonlight,  I 
sat  within  doors,  alone,  wrapt  in  deep,  vague  reveries  ;  and 
on  winter  nights  I  read  and  wrote,  or  pored  over  Euclid,  or 
Virgil,  in  my  close,  dull  chamber,  instead  of  joining  the 
laughing,  chatting  circle  below,  mingling  in  the  dance  and 
merry  game. 

4  Yet,  it  was  not  alone  my  passion  for  study  which  pre¬ 
vented  me  from  taking  that  vigorous  exercise,  and  indulging 
in  those  out-door  amusements  so  absolutely  necessary  for 
both  physical  and  mental  health,  but  ideas  of  propriety  and 
feminine  delicacy,  carefully  inculcated  and  wrought  into 
my  character.  I  have  since  seen  their  folly,  but  too  late. 
Habit  and  old  associations  were  too  strong  for  the  new 
prineiples,. 


THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT. 


145 


4  Ah,  had  my  early  training  been  different  —  had  I  been 
suffered  to  remain  a  child,  a  simple,  natural  child,  through 
the  appointed  season  of  childhood ;  had  my  girlhood  been 
more  free  and  careless,  less  proper,  and  studious,  and  poetic, 
I  might  now  have  been  in  my  happiest  season,  the  prime 
of  a  rich  and  useful  life.  But  as  it  is,  now,  when  my  hus¬ 
band  is  at  last  returning  home  for  his  life-rest;  when  my 
son  is  soon  to  take  his  first  step  into  the  world  ;  when  my 
daughters  need  me  most,  at  thirty-jive  my  course  is  already 
run  !  Oh,  Frederic,  see  that  our  little  pale-faced  Louise 
does  not  pursue  her  mother’s  mistaken  course  —  does  not 
re-live  her  mother’s  imperfect  existence.  Take  her  out 
into  the  fields,  on  to  the  beach  ;  teach  her  to  ride,  to  row, 
to  clamber,  to  fear  neither  sunshine  nor  rain  —  let  fresh  air 
in  upon  her  life,  get  her  young  heart  in  love  with  nature, 
and  all  will  be  well  with  the  child,  I  doubt  not. 

4  Your  own  dear  mother  has  promised  to  take  home  our 
children  when  I  am  gone,  and  have  charge  of  them,  with 
your  consent,  for  some  years  to  come.  The  education  of 
our  daughters  you  should  direct,  for  you  alone  know  my 
plans  and  wishes.  As  to  their  marriage,  that  seems  so  far 
in  the  future  that  you  will  scarcely  expect  me  to  speak  on 
the  subject.  I  can  only  say,  dearest,  teach  our  children,  in 
the  coming  years,  never  to  be  content  with  a  union  which 
promises  less  of  love,  harmony,  and  trust,  than  have  made 
the  blessedness  of  ours.’ 

4  I  wrote  the  foregoing,  dear  Frederic,  more  than  two 
weeks  ago ;  and  now  I  must  say  farewell  to  you,  for  my 
hours  are  indeed  few.  I  think  I  may  not  see  another  morn- 

ino-  on  earth.  I  have  of  late  suffered  much  about  midnight, 

o 

from  extreme  difficulty  of  breathing,  and  something  tells 
me  that  I  shall  not  survive  another  such  season.  But  I  am 
not  dismayed  ;  God  is  yet  with  me  in  His  sustaining  Spirit, 
and  I  fear  no  evil. 

4  And  now,  my  husband,  betore  I  go,  let  me  thank  and 

13 


146 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


bless  you  for  all  your  tenderness  and  patience  toward  me, 
in  the  years  gone  by.  And,  oh  !  let  me  implore  you  not  to 
sorrow  too  bitterly  when  I  am  dead.  We  have  been  very 
happy  in  one  another’s  love,  and  in  our  children  —  our 
children  still  left  to  you.  Can  you  not  say,  “  Blessed  be  the 
name  of  the  Lord  !  ” 

‘  I  inclose  with  this  my  hair,  just  severed  from  my  head. 
I  remember  to  have  often  heard  you  say  that  you  might 
never  have  loved  me  but  for  this  happy  attraction  —  my 
one  beauty.  I  desired  my  sister  to  cut  it  for  you,  and  she 
tried  to  do  so,  but  the  scissors  fell  from  her  hand,  and  she 
went  out  sobbing  bitterly.  Then  I  looked  around  with  a 
troubled  expression,  I  suppose,  on  our  Frederic.  He  under¬ 
stood  it,  came  at  once  to  my  side,  and  calmly,  though  with 
some  tears,  cut  from  the  head  of  his  dying  mother  this  sad 
legacy  for  his  poor  absent  father.  Is  he  not  a  noble  boy  ? 

‘  I  will  not  say  to  you,  Farewell  forever,  for  I  know  your 
living  faith  in  God,  who  will  bring  us  home,  where  there 
shall  be  “no  more  pain,  nor  sorrow,  nor  crying.”  And, 
Frederic,  if  it  be  permitted,  I  will  see  you  once  more,  even 
here.  To  me  it  seems  that  my  love  would  find  you,  wher¬ 
ever  you  might  be  in  the  wide  universe  of  God,  and  that 
my  freed  spirit  would  seek  you  first  —  over  the  deep, 
through  night  and  tempest,  cleaving  its  way  to  your  side. 
But  as  Heaven  willeth,  it  shall  be  ! 

1  And  now,  farewell  !  best  and  dearest,  farewell !  My 
beloved  —  my  beloved  !  Oh,  that  I  could  compress  into 
human  words  the  divine  measure  of  the  love  which  glows 
and  yearns  in  my  heart  at  this  hour  !  That  love  the  frost  of 
death  cannot  chill,  the  night  of  the  grave  cannot  quench.  It 
is  bound  up  with  the  immortal  life  of  my  soul  —  it  shall  live 
for  thee  in  the  heavens,  and  be  thy  eternal  possession  there. 

£  May  God  comfort  thee  in  thy  loneliness,  my  love,  my 
husband.  * 

4  Again,  again  farewell !  Now,  indeed,  the  bitterness  of 
de&tl)  is  past.  And  yet,  once  mor e,  farewell  ! 

‘  Thy  Dora,’ 


DORA’S  CHILDREN. 


A  SEQUEL  TO  ‘  THE  DARKENED  CASEMENT.’ 


FREDERIC  PRESTON. 

Those  who  have' read  ‘The  Darkened  Casement’  will 
remember  the  dying  mother’s  sketch  of  her  son  —  in  which 
she  represented  him  as  a  noble,  generous  lad,  but  with  the 
not  often  co-existing  faults  of  a  will  too  yielding,  too  great 
susceptibility  to  outward  influences,  and  an  ambition  for 
worldly  distinction  too  restless  and  absorbing.  To  the 
strengthening  of  the  manly  will  and  the  moral  principles 
of  his  son,  and  to  the  chastening  and  directing  of  his  ambi¬ 
tion,  Captain  Preston,  keeping  ever  in  his  constant  heart 
the  last  injunctions  of  his  wife,  most  conscientiously  devoted 
himself.  And  great  joy  must  it  have  been  for  him  to  mark, 
day  by  day,  that  fresh,  young,  plastic  nature  rounding  into 
grace  and  beauty,  and  growing  more  strong  and  firm  under 
his  wise  and  gentle  influence. 

Captain  Preston  early  resolved  not  to  expose  his  son  to 
the  many  temptations  and  dangerous  associations  of  college 
life,  but,  being  desirous  that  he  should  receive  a  complete 
classical  and  mathematical  education,  placed  him  under  the 
tuition  of  a  distant  relative  of  his  own  —  a  retired  clergy¬ 
man,  and  one  of  the  most  eminent  scholars  in  New  Eng¬ 
land. 


148 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


So,  in  a  simple,  little  household,  in  a  quiet  inland  village, 
Frederic  Preston  spent  full  four  years,  devoting  himself 
faithfully  to  study,  varied  only  by  occasional  visits  to  his 
native  city,  some  thirty  miles  distant. 

Captain  Preston  was  often  with  his  son,  and  when  absent 
was  in  the  habit  of  writing  to  him  almost  daily.  It  was  his 
wish  and  advice  that  Frederic  should  strengthen  his  consti¬ 
tution,  and  confirm  his  fine  health  by  vigorous  exercises  and 
all  innocent,  manly  sports.  He  also  counselled  him  not 
wholly  to  neglect  social  pleasures;  but  Frederic  was  too 
ambitious  and  too  studious  in  his  habits  to  have  much  taste 
for  general  society. 

The  family  of  Mr.  Ellsworth,  Frederic’s  tutor,  consisted 
of  himself,  his  wife,  an  exceedingly  lovely  woman,  and 
their  youngest  daughter,  Annie,  a  sweet  girl  of  fifteen, 
when  Frederic  first  came  to  her  father’s.  Annie  was  one 
who  was  always  spoken  of  by  her  friends  as  4  a  dear,  good 
child  ;’  she  was  not  very  beautiful,  or  brilliant,  but  she  pos¬ 
sessed  a  warm,  unselfish,  faithful  heart,  and  an  earnest, 
active,  comprehensive  mind.  Like  Frederic’s  mother,  she 
had  been  from  her  early  childhood  passionately  fond  of 
reading  and  study;  but,  unlike  Dora,  she  was  blessed  with 
’great  physical  strength,  and  firm  health.  She  could  pore 
over  her  books  hour  after  hour,  without  banishing  the  bloom 
from  her  cheek,  or  the  light  from  her  eye,  and  she  would 
rise  from  the  most  intense  abstraction  of  study,  to  join  in 
the  usual  sports  of  happy  girlhood,  or  to  assist  her  mother 
in  the  cares  and  labors  of  the  household.  She  became  at 
once  Frederic’s  companion  in  his  studies,  and  was  but  a 
little  way  behind  him  in  many,  while  she  equalled  him  in 
some. 

My  reader  will  scarcely  wonder,  that  as  the  months  and 
years  went  by,  the  study  which  most  deeply  and  pleasantly 
interested  Frederic  Preston  was  that  of  the  rapidly  unfold¬ 
ing  character  of  his  fair  young  friend  ;  for,  in  their  close 
daily  companionship,  he  came  at  last  to  know  every  trait, 


dora’s  children. 


149 


and  power,  and  passion,  and  aspiration,  almost  as  he  knew 
those  of  his  own  nature.  Often  would  the  young  student 
pause,  lift  his  eyes  from  the  book  before  him,  and  fix  them 
on  Annie’s  noble,  kindling  face,  as  she  sat  opposite  to  him, 
lost  in  her  studies,  and  read  in  that  sweet  volume  deeper  lore 
and  more  beautiful  truth  than  geometrical  problems  con¬ 
tained,  or  Greek  characters  expressed.  And  it  was  strange, 
that  however  absorbed  Annie  might  be  by  her  lesson  at 
such  times,  she  failed  not  to  feel  a  sudden,  sweet  disturbance 
troubling  her  stilled  heart,  and  jostling  her  thought  from  the 
point  where  she  had  fixed  it ;  and  involuntarily,  with  an 
inquiring  smile,  she  would  lift  her  eyes  to  his.  Glance 
would  meet  glance,  then  be  quickly,  though  scarce  con¬ 
sciously,  withdrawn. 

And  thus  it  was  that  those  two  free,  unwarped  natures, 
drawn  near  in  their  actual  lives,  and  yet  nearer  by  the 
kindred  of  the  spirit,  like  two  fair  young  trees,  growing  up 
together,  gradually  and  almost  imperceptibly  leaned  towards 
one  another,  and  their  thoughts  and  aspirations  mingled,  like 
intertwining  branches. 

Slowly  and  unconsciously  ascended  each  heart  into  the 
upper  realm,  the  divine  relations  of  a  great  and  holy  affec¬ 
tion.  So  innocent,  so  tender  and  childlike  was  their  love, 
even  in  the  fulness  of  its  beauty  and  power  —  so  lightly  and 
quietly  lay  upon  each  spirit  those  bonds  formed  link  by  link, 
by  congenial  pursuits,  pleasant  daily  associations,  and  gentle 
nightly  dreams,  that  both  were  unknowing  of  the  depth  and 
intensity  of  that  love,  of  the  strength  and  endurance  of  those 
bonds. 

At  last  Frederic  became  aware  that  he  could  never  shut 
Annie  out  of  his  visions  of  the  future  —  were  they  proud  or 
sorrowful,  of  success  or  defeat,  of  poverty  or  splendor,  she 
was  ever  at  his  side,  a  cheering,  guiding,  or  consoling- 
presence.  And  ever  when  his  heart  burned  most  for  fame, 
and  he  listened  most  eagerly  to  the  voice  of  a  selfish,  un- 
13* 


150 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


worthy  ambition,  he  would  feel  the  soft  rebuke  of  her  mild 
eyes,  and  blush,  though  none  were  near. 

When  Frederic  Preston  left  the  village  of  W - ,  to 

pursue  the  study  of  the  law  in  his  native  city,  he  was  not 
formally  plighted  to  Annie  ;  he  had  not  even  given  full 
expression  by  spoken  or  written  words  to  the  affection  which 
lay  upon  his  heart  with  the  weight  of  an  inestimable  treasure. 
But  what  need  was  there  of  words,  when  every  look  towards 
her  was  a  protestation  —  every  tone  a  fervent  prayer  for 
love  ?  All  this  she  understood,  and  rested  with  perfect 
faith  and  a  measureless  content  in  the  assurance  thus  given 
her  —  the  eloquent,  though  unspoken  avowal  of  a  love  which 
she  returned  with  all  the  strength  and  pure  devotion  of  her 
nature. 

Frederic  Preston  pursued  his  legal  studies  with  an  emi¬ 
nent  lawyer,  who  became  to  him  a  friend  as  well  as  a 
preceptor.  Mr.  Abbott  soon  perceived  the  fine  ability,  read 
aright  the  amiable  and  manly  character  of  his  young  stu¬ 
dent,  and  bent  himself  to  advance  his  interests.  In  the 
family  circle  of  the  Abbotts  there  was  much  of  true  refine¬ 
ment —  here  Frederic  saw  fashionable  society  in  its  most 
attractive  form,  and  very  soon  felt  himself  entirely  at  home. 
He  was,  as  we  know,  well  read  ;  he  possessed  much  native 
elegance  and  rare  conversational  talent ;  nor  was  he  want¬ 
ing  in  those  lighter  accomplishments  which  most  grace  a 
gentleman. 

At  the  urgent  request  of  Mr.  Abbott  and  his  family,  Fred¬ 
eric  accompanied  them  to  their  pleasant  summer  residence, 
on  the  seaside,  some  five  miles  from  the  city,  where  he 
continued  to  spend  his  office  hours. 

Many  were  the  visitors  at  that  hospitable  mansion,  and 
endless  the  plans  of  pleasure  ;  it  was  a  season  of  rare  enjoy¬ 
ment  to  Frederic,  and  for  several  weeks  his  letters  to  Annie, 
which  were  long,  frequent,  and  most  confiding  in  their  tone, 
were  filled  with  lively  descriptions  of  novel  and  pleasant 
scenes,  and  graphic  sketches  of  character ;  but,  finally, 


dora’s  children.  151 

those  letters  came  less  often,  and  grew  strangely  formal  and 
constrained,  or  seemed  careless  and  hurried. 

During  the  first  week  of  his  stay  at  the  seashore,  he 
heard  much  of  the  expected  arrival  of  a  sister  of  his  pre¬ 
ceptor,  Mrs.  Ashton,  who  was  about  returning  from  Europe, 
whither  she  had,  a  year  or  two  previous,  accompanied  an 
invalid  husband,  whom  she  had  buried  in  Italy.  She  came 
at  last,  and  Frederic,  who  had  looked  for  a  pale,  thin,  sor¬ 
rowful,  middle-aged  matron,  was  agreeably  surprised  to 
meet  a  young  and  beautiful  woman  —  brilliant  and  con¬ 
versable  in  spite  of  her  weeds.  Mrs.  Ashton  was,  in  truth, 
a  most  superb  and  fascinating  creature.  She  had  all  the 
graces  and  enchantments  which  rare  beauty,  fair  talent, 
many  accomplishments,  a  thorough  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  a  most  artistic  and  refined  coquetry,  could  give  her. 
In  her  marriage  there  had  been  scarce  the  pretence  of  love 
on  either  side.  Her  husband,  an  eminent  politician  and 
diplomatist,  had  outlived  the  season  of  impassioned  feeling 
when  he  met  her,  and  honored  her  with  his  distinguished 
alliance.  Though  absorbed  in  his  narrow  pursuits,  drowned 
in  politics,  he  was  proud  of  his  wife,  cared  for  her  happi¬ 
ness  while  he  lived,  and  left  her  an  immense  fortune  at  his 
death.  On  her  part,  the  wife  had  been  outwardly  faithful 
and  duteous  —  had  nursed  him  patiently  through  his  long 
illness  —  shed  some  tears,  and  planted  a  rose-tree  on  his 
grave.  There  had  been  given  no  tender  child-love  to  draw 
nearer  those  two  hearts  which  had  throbbed  side  by  side  for 
years,  but  between  which  there  was  in  truth  a  cold  and 
weary  distance. 

Mrs.  Ashton  had  consoled  herself  for  the  dead  life  of  a 
loveless  and  childless  marriage,  with  a  leadership  in  society, 
by  wielding  a  powerful  though  secret  influence  in  the  politi¬ 
cal  world,  and  by  her  enthusiasm  for  music.  She  was  an 
artistic  singer,  and  played  upon  the  harp  and  piano  very 
finely,  though  with  more  brilliancy  than  feeling. 

In  short,  Caroline  Ashton  had  given  to  the  world  her  life, 


152 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


her  very  soul,  and  the  world  had  rewarded  her  by  making 
her  a  large  sharer  in  the  most  refined  of  its  intellectual  and 
sensual  pleasures,  and  by  the  bestowal  of  its  most  intoxi¬ 
cating  homage.  She  was  in  full  possession  of  her  rare 
gifts  and  acquirements  —  rich,  free,  and  twenty-five  — 
when  she  cast  her  beautiful  fatal  eyes  upon  Frederic 
Preston. 

He  was  then  little  more  than  twenty-one,  but  looked  some 
years  older,  as  his  figure  was  tall,  firmly  built,  and  fully 
developed,  while  his  countenance  wore  a  remarkable  mature 
expression.  He  was  handsome,  even  beautiful,  his  face 
being  one  that  failed  not  to  attract  admiring  attention  every 
where.  With  Mrs.  Ashton’s  artistic  tastes,  it  was  little 
wonder  that  our  friend  found  peculiar  favor  in  her  eyes  from 
the  first.  So  much  was  her  fancy  captivated,  though  her  • 
sense  of  beauty,  and  the  little  romance  that  yet  lingered  in 
her  coldly  brilliant  character,  like  the  few  small  Alpine 
flowers  that  grow  among  the  glaciers  —  so  quick  was  her 
recognition  of  his  fine  talent  and  of  the  wild  ambition,  so 
kindred  to  her  own,  which  sometimes  blazed  in  his  eye,  and 
broke  from  his  lips  in  impatient,  almost  reckless,  expression 
—  that  her  new  and  pleasant  impressions  and  vague  specu¬ 
lations  at  last  formed  themselves  into  a  strange,  but  well- 
defined  plan.  She  would  bestow  her  hand  and  her  great 
fortune  upon  Frederic  Preston  —  would  mould  his  yet  plastic 
character,  develop  his  genius,  concentrate  his  enthusiasm,  aid 
him  by  her  knowledge  of  the  world,  and  urge  him  on  to  suc¬ 
cess  and  fame  by  the  tireless  force  of  her  own  passionate 
will.  She  could  not  be  ashamed  of  him  as  he  was  —  she 
would  be  unspeakably  proud  of  him  when  she  had  made  him 
all  she  desired. 

And  Frederic  —  how  stood  he  affected  towards  her  ?  For 
a  while  he  was  reserved  in  his  intercourse  with  her  —  in 
truth,  was  somewhat  jealous  of  a  woman  who,  with  all  her 
tact,  could  not  at  all  times  conceal  a  certain  consciousness 
of  superiority.  But  soon  this  failed  to  pique  his  pride,  and 


dora’s  children. 


153 


he  listened  to  her  soft,  even-toned  voice,  till  it  became 
indeed  ‘  the  voice  of  the  charmer.’ 

Mrs.  Ashton  ever  spoke  with  careless  indifference,  in  a 
tone  of  superior  wisdom,  half  pitying,  half  contemptuous, 
of  a  simple  life  of  the  affections  ;  but  dwelt  with  kindling 
enthusiasm  on  a  life  of  intellectual  power,  and  refined 
sensual  pleasures,  as  one  worthy  of  the  gods. 

She  spoke  of  love,  as  life’s  morning  dream,  exceeding 
sweet  and  beautiful,  yet  which  must  pass  away,  like  the 
early  mist ;  but  of  the  pursuit  of  fame  and  power,  as  the 
earnest,  worthy,  glorious  business  of  the  day.  She  believed 
in  passion  —  she  had  herself  called  forth  too  often  that 
lava-tide  of  the  heart,  to  doubt  its  existence  ;  but  of  a  pure, 
exalting,  unselfish,  unworldly  affection,  that  deep,  myste¬ 
rious  sympathy  of  the  spirit,  that  close,  indissoluble  union 
of  life  with  life,  that  perfect  blending  of  two  natures,  one 
for  evermore,  she  had  no  real  belief  or  conception. 

And  Frederic  listened  to  those  deadly  sophistries  which 
came  sliding  softly  through  the  most  perfect  lips  in  the 
world  —  listened  and  received  them  into  his  warm,  impres¬ 
sible  heart,  which  seemed  to  harden  about  them,  and  hold 
them,  as  a  rock  holds  crystals.  And  gradually,  the  little 
fairy  isle  of  love,  and  hope,  and  happiness,  once  so  green 
and  bright  in  the  sea  of  his  future,  sunk  down  and  disap¬ 
peared,  and  the  chill  waters  of  a  worldly  and  selfish  phi¬ 
losophy  passed  over  it. 

Yet  it  need  hardly  be  said  that  Frederic  Preston  did  not 
love  Mrs.  Ashton.  We  know  that  he  loved  Annie  Ells¬ 
worth.  He  gave  to  his  new  mistress  a  half  intellectual, 
half  passionate  worship  ;  there  were  no  close  confidences, 
no  careless  familiarity,  no  companionship,  no  sweet  sense 
of  nearness,  between  the  two.  Frederic  felt  Mrs.  Ashton’s 
presence  in  the  quickened  action  of  his  heart — she  always 
roused,  but  never  soothed  him.  The  casual  touch  of  her 
hand  sent  shocks  through  all  his  frame  —  he  first  sought, 
then  shrank  from  the  gaze  of  her  eyes,  with  he  knew  not 


154 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


what  of  apprehension  and  dismay.  Ah,  there  was  strange 
power  in  those  eyes  —  power  even  in  the  slow  fall  and 
upward  sweep  of  the  long,  dark  lashes. 

Yet  though  Frederic  Preston  did  not  love  Mrs.  Ashton, 
he  sometimes  imagined  that  he  did  ;  nor  could  he  be  blind 
to  her  partiality  for  himself;  and  well  he  saw,  with  his 
sharpened  vision,  that  with  the  wealth  and  influence  of  such 
a  wife,  the  realization  of  the  wildest  dreams  of  his  ambition 
was  possible.  Finally — the  truth  must  be  told  —  he  began 
to  congratulate  himself  on  the  fact  that  there  existed  no 
positive,  formal  engagement  between  himself  and  Annie, 
and  strove  to  shut  out  from  his  heart  the  now  sad  conviction 
that  the  poor  girl’s  very  life  was  bound  up  in  his. 

It  was  a  sultry  night,  in  the  last  of  August.  The  air  was 
of  that  peculiar  heaviness  which  forebodes  a  violent  thunder¬ 
storm,  and  the  Abbotts  were  seated  on  the  vine-shaded 
piazza,  looking  at  the  masses  of  black  clouds  which  lowered 
over  the  ocean,  and  watching  the  lightnings  which  played 
incessantly  along  the  horizon,  now  and  then  dropping  down 
and  quenching  themselves  in  the  sea. 

Mrs.  Ashton  and  Frederic  Preston  were  alone  in  the 
drawing-room.  Mrs.  Ashton  sat  at  the  piano,  now  running 
her  fair  hands  over  the  keys,  in  a  wild,  fitful  manner,  and 
singing  snatches  of  songs  —  now  conversing  with  her  com¬ 
panion  in  tones  more  than  usually  low  and  silvery.  The 
two  had  been  riding  in  the  woods  along  the  seashore  that 
afternoon,  and  a  graceful  wild  vine,  which  Frederic  had 
gathered,  now  rested  on  the  classic  brow  of  the  dark-eyed 
widow.  Never,  in  all  the  time  he  had  known  her,  had  she 
seemed  so  perilously  beautiful  to  Frederic.  There  was  a 
soft,  dreamy,  half-sad  expression  in  her  face,  which  he  had 
never  before  remarked  —  a  tender  languor  a  thousand  times 
more  irresistible  than  her  usual  queenly  air  and  triumphant 
smile.  Alas,  at  that  moment,  how  utterly  forgotten  was 
the  simple  village  maiden,  his  boyhood’s  love  ;  how  utterly 
blotted  from  his  heaven  seemed  that  fair  star,  so  late  his 


bora’s  children.  155 

guiding  light !  Annie’s  last  letter,  breathing  in  every  line  a 
generous  trust,  untroubled  by  coldness  or  neglect,  he  had 
left  for  weeks  unanswered.  It  came  to  him  just  as  he  was 
about  setting  forth  for  a  ride  with  Mrs.  Ashton,  and  he  flung 
it  into  his  desk,  where  it  actually  remained  for  a  day  or  two 
unread  —  quite  forgotten.  Yet  there  was  a  time  when  he 
eagerly  welcomed  a  letter  in  that  familiar  hand,  and  read  it 
with  kindling  eyes,  pausing  only  to  press  it  to  his  lips,  ere 
he  broke  the  seal.  Now,  as  he  looked  on  that  splendid 
woman  at  his  side,  with  the  proud  conviction  that  she  might 
be  his,  a  passionate  impulse  prompted  him  to  make  that 
avowal  which  had  again  and  again  trembled  on  his  lips,  but 
which  had  ever  been  repressed  by  a  strange,  unknown 
power.  He  bowed  over  her,  sought  her  eyes,  and  would 
have  spoken,  but  that  at  the  moment  she  began  singing  a 
verse  of  the  4  Vesper  Hymn  to  the  Virgin.’  It  was  the  last 
hymn  which  he  remembered  to  have  heard  his  mother  sing, 
and  now  it  struck  back  the  mad  words  of  a  false  love  from 
his  lips,  and  left  him  silent,  from  the  sense  of  an  angelic 
rebuke.  But  presently  it  seemed  that  the  dead  mother’s 
hand  was  withdrawn  from  his  lips,  that  her  warning  presence 
passed  from  his  side ;  for,  as  Mrs.  Ashton  ceased  warbling 
one  of  Barry  Cornwall’s  delicious  love-songs,  Frederic  knelt 
at  her  side,  grasped  her  hand,  and  looking  into  her  eyes, 
murmured  — 4  Caroline  !  ’  but  not  a  word  more  could  he 
utter.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  presumed  to  call 
her  by  her  Christian  name.  Yet,  leaving  her  hand  in  his, 
she  smiled  graciously,  saying,  4  Well,  Frederic  !  ’ 

And  he  was  lost  ?  No,  no ;  salvation  came  in  the  form 
of  James,  the  Irish  servant,  who  entered,  saying :  4 1  beg 
your  pardon,  sir,  but  here  is  a  lettlier  just  brought  by  the 
post,  marked  44  Deliver  immadiately”  and  I  thought  maybe 
you’d  like  to  read  it  at  once.’ 

Frederic,  struck  by  a  strange  dread,  caught  the  letter, 
tore  it  open  on  the  spot,  and  read  these  hurried  lines  : 

4  Dear  Frederic:  My  daughter’s  life  is  despaired  of. 


156 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


She  is  very  low  with  the  typhus  fever.  If  you  would  see 
her  alive,  come  to  us  at  once.  Charles  Ellsworth.1 

Oh,  human  heart!  thou  fathomless  mystery!  thou  inex¬ 
plicable  contradiction !  In  one  brief  moment,  from  the 
lowest  deeps  of  Frederic’s  nature  welled  up  the  old  love, 
in  a  swift,  resistless  tide  of  anguish,  remorse,  and  irrepres¬ 
sible  tenderness,  uprooting  and  sweeping  away  the  new 
love,  as  it  were  a  slight  flower —  dashing  in  pieces  its  proud 
dreams,  as  the  rising  waves  scatter  in  fragments  frail  struc¬ 
tures  built  by  children  for  pastime  on  the  shore,  when  the 
tide  is  low. 

With  a  hurried  adieu,  and  a  partial  explanation  to  his 
friends,  Frederic  sprang  on  to  his  horse,  and  set  out  for 

W _  at  full  speed.  He  had  not  ridden  far  before  the 

storm  which  had  been  so  long  lowering  in  the  east  came 
down  with  great  fury.  The  night  was  utterly  dark,  and  the 
half-distracted  rider  could  only  see  his  way  by  flashes  of 
lightning.  His  horse  was  a  fine  one,  and  for  full  twenty 
miles  bore  up  bravely  ;  but  finally,  on  crossing  a  little  bridge 
from  which  the  swollen  stream  had  carried  away  a  plank, 
he  fell  through,  and  so  injured  one  shoulder,  that  his  master 
saw  at  once  that  he  could  proceed  no  further.  So,  hastily 
fastening  the  faithful  creature  by  the  roadside,  there  being 
no  house  or  barn  near,  Frederic  resolutely  pursued  his  way 
on  foot.  A  superhuman  strength  seemed  given  him ;  he 
scarcely  felt  fatigue  or  heeded  the  tempest,  as  for  five  long 
miles  he  toiled  up  and  dashed  down  the  hills,  bespattered 
with  mud,  drenched  with  the  rain,  and  half-blinded  by  the 
lightning !  There  was  a  fear, at  his  heart  colder  than  the 
chill  of  the  rain,  and  more  dismaying  than  the  lightning. 
Yet  he  struggled  on,  hoping  only  to  reach  Annie’s  death¬ 
bed,  to  weep  out  his  sorrow  and  repentance  at  her  feet,  to 
receive  one  word,  one  look  of  forgiveness,  ere  she  died. 
And  how  the  past  came  back !  the  dear,  lost  season  of 
innocent  joys,  simple  desires,  and  purest  love.  He  remem- 


dora’s  children.  157 

bered  how,  only  a  year  ago,  Annie  had  patiently  and  ten¬ 
derly  nursed  him  through  a  fever  like  the  one  which  had 
now  prostrated  her.  Thus,  torn  with  fear  and  self-reproach, 
he  at  last  drew  near  the  pleasant  familiar  house  of  the 
Ellsworths.  He  crossed  the  lawn,  he  staggered  against  the 
door,  and,  after  a  brief  struggle  for  calmness,  knocked. 
The  housekeeper,  whom  he  well  knew,  opened  to  him. 
He  entered,  but  for  his  soul  he  could  not  utter  a  word. 

4  She  is  living,  sir,’  said  the  woman,  who  understood  his 
silence  ;  4  but  she  has  been  quite  unconscious  for  several 
hours,  and  we  have  no  more  any  hope  that  she  will  long 
continue  with  us.’ 

4  For  God’s  sake  lead  me  to  her !  ’  cried  Frederic,  and  in 
a  moment  more  he  stood  in  Annie’s  room —  that  room  once 
so  light  and  cheerful,  but  now  the  shadowed  and  silent 
chamber  of  the  dying.  All  her  dearest  friends  were  there 
—  father,  mother,  sister  and  brother,  weeping  and  waiting 
for  the  coming  of  the  dread  angel ;  but  Frederick  saw  only 
that  one  beloved,  lying  pale  and  insensible  —  her  blue  eyes 
closed,  her  brown  hair  floating  over  the  pillow,  her  faded 
lips  apart,  and  the  breath  struggling  up  from  her  breast 
faintly,  and  yet  more  faintly.  One  white  hand  lay  across 
her  bosom,  and  Frederic,  kneeling  at  her  bedside,  bowed 
his  face  upon  this,  and  covered  it  with  his  tears  and  his 
kisses.  None  sought  to  reprove  or  check  the  outburst  of 
his  grief,  as  he  cried  — 

4  Oh,  Annie  !  do  not  leave  me  !  It  is  I  —  Frederic.  Look 
on  me  once  more,  my  love,  once  more  !’ 

And  she  did  look  on  him  !  He  felt  that  white  hand 
tremble  against  his  lips,  then  those  blue  eyes  slowly  un¬ 
closed,  and  fixed  upon  his  upturned  face  a  glance  of  recog¬ 
nition,  of  joy,  of  love.  She  spoke  not,  but  slowly  lifted  her 
hand  and  laid  it  among  the  damp  curls  of  his  hair,  tenderly 
smoothing  them  back  from  his  forehead.  Then  Frederic 
laid  his  head  down  by  hers,  kissed  her  cheek,  and  wept 
14 


158 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


convulsively.  Mr.  Ellsworth  would  have  removed  him, 

*  f 

but  Annie  whispered  — 

‘Let  him  lie  here,  father !  I  shall  receive  life  again  from 
his  lips  ;  do  not  take  him  away,  for  he  has  saved  me  !  ’ 

And  he  had  saved  her  !  From  that  hour  the  fever  was 
broken,  the  disease  departed,  and  dear  Annie  recovered. 
Yet  for  many  days  her  spirit  seemed  to  stand  trembling  on 
the  confines  of  the  vale  of  shadows,  ere  even  that  mightiest 
love  could  draw  her  back  into  the  light  and  warmth  of  life. 

It  was  only  by  filling  her  heart  with  the  tones  of  the  best 
beloved  voice,  that  she  could  be  made  to  forget  the  celestial 
music  which  floated  to  her  ear,  when  so  long  she  lay  deaf 
to  all  sounds  of  earth,  and  only  the  mute  entreaty  of  those 
sorrowful  eyes  could  make  her  unheedful  of  fair  angel 
forms  still  beckoning  to  her  across  the  river  of  death. 

After  a  month  of  the  most  careful  and  tender  nursing, 
Annie  was  able  to  leave  her  room,  supported  by  Frederic, 
almost  borne  in  his  arms.  He  wheeled  her  arm-chair 
toward  the  fire,  arranged  the  pillows  about  her,  and  lifting 
her  little  feet,  placed  them  on  a  soft  cushion.  He  read  to 
her  in  a  low  voice,  from  her  favorite  books,  talked  to  her  in 
a  yet  lower  voice,  sweeter  things  than  she  had  ever  found 
in  books.  He  brought  her  the  brightest  flowers  and  the 
greenest  mosses  from  the  autumn  woods  ;  and  when,  one 
mild  day,  early  in  November,  she  was  able  to  take  a  little 
stroll  with  him  through  the  village,  leaning  fondly  and 
dependinglv  on  his  arm,  as  his  own  betrothed  wife,  he  was 
more  happy,  and  proud,  and  grateful  to  God,  than  he  had 
language  to  express. 

Frederic  had  faithfully  confided  to  Annie  the  story  of  his 
passion,  or  rather  infatuation,  for  Caroline  Ashton ;  and  she 
in  the  wisdom  of  her  own  generous  nature,  regarded  it 
as  but  a  brief  usurpation,  by  the  intellect  and  the  senses,  of 
the  rightful  rule  of  the  heart  —  a  heart  which,  though  foi  a 
time  a  sad  truant,  weak  and  erring,  had  never  entirely  for¬ 
saken  its  love  and  her. 


159 


dora’s  children. 

% 

On  Christmas  Eve  there  was  a  simple,  quiet  wedding 
party  assembled  in  Mr.  Ellsworth’s  pleasant  parlor.  First, 
of  course,  were  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  Annie  and  Fred¬ 
eric,  looking  as  nobody  had  ever  seen  them  look  before 
handsomer,  happier,  and  more  interesting  every  way.  The 
bridesmaids  were  Pauline  Preston,  grown  a  tall  and  elegant 
girl,  and  ‘  little  Louise,’  now  no  longer  4  pale-faced  ’  and 
plain.  The  groomsmen  were,  Mr.  Ernest  St.  John,  a  young 
gentleman  who  looked  as  poetical  as  his  name  would  lead 
one  to  hope  ;  being  a  slight,  delicate  person,  with  a  fair 
Greek  face,  expressive,  if  not  of  genius,  of  a  noble  spiritu¬ 
ality  far  more  rare  and  beautiful  —  and  Mr.  Walter  Edwards, 
of  New  York,  a  distant  relative  of  the  Prestons,  a  remark¬ 
ably  grave-looking  but  handsome  young  man  of  nineteen, 
who  was  just  about  sailing  tor  Germany,  where  he  was  to 
complete  his  education. 

Mr.  Ellsworth  was  the  officiating  clergyman,  but  Captain 
Preston  had  the  first  kiss  of  the  bride,  and  all  were  merry 
and  sad  at  once.  There  was  no  woman’s  smile,  at  least, 
that  shone  not  through  tears. 

One  year  from  that  night,  there  was  a  grand  wedding  at 
the  Abbotts’,  when  Mrs.  Ashton  became  again  the  proud 
wife  of  a  distinguished  statesman.  The  happy  pair  set  out 
at  once  for  Washington  ;  but  the  splendor  of  that  wedding 
did  not  soon  pass  from  the  memory  of  some  of  the  guests. 
Such  high-bred  elegance  was  there  in  the  air  of  the  bride¬ 
groom,  despite  his  years  and  portly  figure  !  and  such  dia¬ 
monds  as  the  bride  wore  ! 

Somewhat  more  than  eight  years  had  passed.  Frederic 
Preston,  who  from  the  time  of  his  marriage  had  been  estab¬ 
lished  in  his  native  town,  living  with  his  father  and  sisters, 
in  Dora’s  own  dear  cottage-home,  had  met  with  fair  success 
in  his  profession,  had  been  happy,  most  happy,  in  his  mar¬ 
riage,  and  was  the  proud  father  of  three  lovely  children. 
He  was  not  yet,  however,  in  any  position  of  power  and 


160  GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 

* 

honor  in  the  State  —  not  from  the  want  of  political  abilities 
and  predilections,  but  because  he  had  chosen  to  stand  forth 
rather  prominently  for  certain  principles  more  honorable  to 
him  than  popular  with  the  multitude.  Frederic  possessed 
genuine  eloquence,  conciliating  manners,  and  a  noble  char¬ 
acter  ;  all  of  which  gave  him  great  influence  over  the  minds 
of  the  people,  speaking  even,  though  he  most  frequently 
was,  against  the  tide  of  popular  prejudice.  So  general  was 
the  appreciation  of  the  force  of  Mr.  Preston’s  character,  and 
of  his  peculiar  intellectual  power,  that  many  were  the  temp¬ 
tations  which  came  to  him  in  the  shape  of  secret  overtures 
from  parties  and  political  leaders,  of  place  and  preferment, 
if  he  would  abandon  his  present  c  lofty,  but  impracticable 
purposes,’  and  sacrifice  his  favorite  ‘  abstractions.’  To  all 
such  propositions  Frederic  had  returned  but  one  reply  — 
an  unqualified  and  indignant  rejection.  But  it  happened, 
at  length,  there  arose  an  unfortunate  difference  between 
himself  and  some  of  his  associates  in  the  cause  to  which 
he  had  devoted  all  his  energies  and  sacrificed  so  many 
worldly  interests ;  he  felt  himself  wronged,  distrusted,  and 
ungratefully  forsaken,  by  those  to  whom  he  had  long  been 
bound  by  the  close  fellowship  of  a  holy,  common  cause, 
the  brotherhood  of  a  great  truth  ;  and,  wounded  and  embit¬ 
tered,  he  withdrew  himself  from  them  for  a  time.  That 
misunderstanding  had  seemed  but  a  slight  thing  in  the 
beginning ;  but  the  breach  had  been  widened  by  thoughtless 
or  designing  persons,  till  it  seemed  almost  impassable.  It 
was  then,  when  so  peculiarly  open  to  temptation,  that 
Frederic  received  a  confidential  letter,  which  might  have 
staggered  him  in  his  best  hours.  This  was  from  Mr.  Abbott, 
his  former  preceptor  in  the  law,  now  an  eminent  political 
leader,  high  in  office.  It  was  written  in  a  kind,  a  genuinely 
friendly  tone  ;  it  was  a  flattering  tribute  to  Frederic’s  talent, 
and  an  earnest  remonstrance  against  the  use  to  which  he 
was  putting  it  —  an  appeal,  almost  an  entreaty,  to  turn, 
while  it  was  yet  time,  from  the  course  which  he  was  pur- 


161 


bora’s  children. 

suing  with  more  generosity  than  wisdom,  and  for  the  sake 
of  his  family  and  friends  to  enter  upon  the  enviable  career 
so  plainly  open  before  him,  and  to  seize  the  good  fortune 
which  awaited  him.  It  contained  most  ingenious  arguments, 
to  prove  that  he  could  even  ultimately  advance  those  very 
truths  now  so  dear  to  him,  by  a  temporary  abandonment 
of  their  advocacy.  In  conclusion,  the  writer  earnestly, 
though  delicately,  pressed  upon  his  young  friend  the  ac¬ 
ceptance  of  an  honorable  and  lucrative  appointment,  and 
prophecied  for  him  much  success  and  fame,  if  only  he 
would  be  faithful  to  the  'principles  and  interests  of  his  new 
party. 

More  than  once  Frederic  Preston’s  face  flushed  as  he 
read  this  letter.  Was  it  the  blush  of  honest  shame,  or  the 
rekindling  of  the  old  baleful  fire?  Ah!  he  hardly  knew 
himself  which  it  bespoke. 

At  length  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  strode  rapidly  up 
and  down  his  room,  the  quivering  of  his  lip  and  the  swell¬ 
ing  of  the  veins  in  his  forehead  revealing  the  struggle 
which  was  passing  in  his  breast. 

He  next  resolved  to  seek  Annie,  though  he  felt  that  he 
should  scarce  dare  to  let  her  see  how  sorely  he  was  tempted. 
He  found  his  wife  in  the  room  which  had  once  been  his 
mother’s  —  that  ‘  pleasant  chamber  which  looked  out  upon 
the  sea.’  She  was  sitting  with  her  baby  asleep  upon  her 
lap,  and  was  busy  in  reading  a  manuscript  which  looked 
somewhat  worn  and  yellow  ;  and  as  Frederic  drew  near,  he 
saw  that  she  was  weeping.  But,  dashing  away  her  tears, 
and  smiling  on  her  husband,  she  said  :  — 

4 1  have  been  reading  this  last  letter  of  your  mother  to 
your  father.  He  has  let  me  take  it  again.  I  cannot  read 
it  too  often.  Do  you  know,  dearest,  that  I  think  what 
relates  to  you  the  truest  and  most  beautiful  of  all  ?  ’ 

4  Read  it  to  me,  love,’  said  Frederic,  striving  to  banish 
the  half-sad,  half-morose  look  he  had  worn  of  late — seating 
himself  beside  his  wife,  and  winding  his  arm  about  her 

14* 


162 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


waist.  And  Annie  read,  in  a  soft,  reverential  voice,  those 
touching  injunctions  of  the  dying  mother  contained  in  Dora’s 
simple  story.  As  she  had  been  moved  by  one  of  Love’s 
own  divine  intuitions,  she  read  with  peculiar  impressiveness 
such  passages  as  these  : 

‘  O !  teach  him  what  I  have  ever  earnestly  sought  to 
inspire  —  a  hearty  devotion  to  the  right  —  a  fervent  love  of 
liberty  —  a  humble  reverence  for  humanity.  Teach  him  to 
yield  his  ready  worship  to  God’s  truth,  wherever  he  may 
meet  it  —  followed  by  the  multitude  strewing  palm-branches, 
or  forsaken,  denied,  and  crucified.  Teach  him  to  honor  his 
own  nature  by  a  brave  and  upright  life,  and  to  stand  for 
justice  and  freedom  against  the  world. 

4  Teach  him  to  be  watchful  of  his  independence,  to  guard 
jealously  his  manliness.  I  know  that  I  need  not  charge  you 
to  infuse  into  his  mind  a  true  patriotic  spirit,  free  from  cant 
and  bravado  —  to  counsel  him  against  poor  party  feuds  and 
narrow  political  prejudices.  God  grant  that  you  may  live 
to  see  our  son,  if  not  one  of  the  world’s  great  men,  one 
whose  pure  life  shall  radiate  good  and  happiness  —  whose 
strong  and  symmetrical  character  shall  be  a  lesson  of  moral 
greatness,  a  type  of  true  manhood.’ 

As  Annie  read,  she  felt  Frederic’s  head  sinking  on  to  her 
shoulder,  and  when  she  finished,  his  fast  tears  were  stealing 
down  her  neck.  Flinging  aside  the  manuscript,  she  folded 
her  arms  about  him,  and  wept  with  him,  but  said  no  word. 
Soon  Frederic  rose  up  with  a  clear  smile,  kissed  the  tears 
from  Annie’s  beautiful  eyes,  and  returned  to  his  library, 
where  he  penned  a  brief  letter  to  his  friend,  thanking  him 
for  his  kindness,  but  decidedly,  though  mildly,  declining  the 
flattering  offer  which  he  had  made. 

That  night  Frederic  Preston  made  one  of  a  small  assem¬ 
bly,  where  a  few  brave,  true  hearts  were  gathered  together 
in  the  cause  of  justice  and  freedom.  There  he  struck 
hands  again  with  those  from  whom  he  had  been  for  a  little 
time  estranged  —  frankly  told  them  wherein  they  had 


163 


DORA'S  CHILDREN. 

wronged  him,  and  as  frankly  confessed  his  own  error  in 
yielding  to  a  proud  and  hasty  resentment  —  pledged  his 
faith  once  more  to  the  Right,  and  renewed  his  early  conse¬ 
cration  to  Freedom. 

Frederic  Preston  may  never  be  rich,  or  great,  as  the 
world  counts  riches  and  recognises  greatness ;  but  priceless 
treasures  of  affection  are  his,  with  the  reverence  of  true 
and  honorable  natures,  and  the  poor  and  oppressed  1  shall 
rise  up  and  call  him  blessed.’ 


PAULINE  PKESTON. 

‘  How  beautiful  you  are  looking  to-night,  Pauline  !  But 
then,  you  always  look  lovelier  to  me  than  any  other  woman. 
Ah  !  sister,  do  you  not  joy  in  your  beauty  every  time  you 
look  in  the  mirror  ?  ’ 

4  Why,  no,  my  dear  little  flatterer.  I  have  become  accus¬ 
tomed  to  it.  But,  Louise,  how  is  it  that  you  are  not  yet 
dressed  ?  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  if  you  wished  to  come 
to  the  mirror  ?  ’ 

1  Oh,  no  matter  !  I  can  knot  up  my  hair  well  enough, 
without  looking  in  the  glass.  I  forgot  myself  in  watching 
you,  looping  up  your  curls,  and  arranging  your  wreath  ;  but 
I  will  make  haste  now,  and  not  detain  la  reine  du  bal  too 
long.  Please  fasten  this  bracelet.  Thank  you.  Now  run 
down,  and  tell  papa  that  I’ll  be  ready  in  a  moment.’ 

It  will  be  seen  by  the  above  conversational  fragment,  that 
Pauline  Preston  could  hardly  escape  falling  into  the  error 
which  her  mother  had  apprehended  —  that  of  a  vain-glorying 
in  her  beauty.  Nearly  all  who  approached  her  came  with 
looks  of  involuntary  admiration,  if  not  with  words  of  flat- 
tery  while  ever  at  her  side  was  her  enthusiastic  young 
sister,  with  an  absolute  worship  in  her  eyes  and  on  her  lips. 
Captain  Preston  did  what  he  could  to  counteract  the  dan¬ 
gerous,  though  often  well-meant  adulation  of  others,  and,  it 


164 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


may  be,  prevented  his  daughter  from  becoming  utterly 
selfish  and  heartless,  by  his  kind,  judicious  counsels,  and  by 
keeping  fresh  in  her  memory  her  dying  mother’s  words  of 
warning. 

Pauline’s  beauty  was  indeed  of  a  rare  and  striking  type. 
With  a  fair  and  singularly  radiant  complexion,  she  had  yet 
the  pure,  classic  features,  the  large,  dark,  heavily-shaded 
eyes,  and  the  shining  black  hair  of  a  Roman  girl.  She  was 
tall,  with  a  well-rounded  form,  peculiarly  lithe  and  graceful 
in  its  movements. 

Pauline  could  not  be  called  highly  intellectual,  though 
she  had  a  mind  well  cultured  and  rather  practical  in  its 
character,  with  much  readiness,  tact,  and  taste.  She  was 
abundantly  conscious  of  all  her  personal  advantages,  natural 
and  acquired,  but  was  rather  proud  than  vain.  She  was 
ambitious,  imperious,  and  often  strangely  wilful,  yet  was 
generous,  impulsive,  and  brave — with  wells  of  passionate 
feeling  in  her  nature,  deep,  unseen,  and  by  the  world  un¬ 
suspected. 

Ordinarily  she  bore  herself  toward  her  sister  with  an  air 
of  assured  superiority,  graciously  accepting  her  homage  ; 
but  were  Louise  ill,  or  sad,  the  goddess  straightway  de¬ 
scended  from  her  pedestal,  to  nurse  and  comfort  the  child, 
with  all  a  mother’s  patient  tenderness. 

Pauline  had  much  talent  and  great  enthusiasm  for  music. 
Gifted  with  a  glorious,  soaring  voice,  and  a  delicate  ear,  she 
made  rapid  progress  in  her  favorite  study,  and,  finally  get¬ 
ting  beyond  her  governess,  was  placed  under  the  tuition  of 
an  accomplished  master  —  Mr.  Ernest  St.  John,  the  young 
gentleman  before  mentioned  as  one  of  the  groomsmen  at 
Frederic  Preston’s  wedding.  Mr.  St.  John  was  a  true  musi¬ 
cal  genius  —  a  noble  interpreter  of  the  divine  mysteries  of 
harmony.  His  music,  though  of  high  artistic  excellence, 
spoke  even  more  to  the  soul  than  to  the  ear.  His  playing 
exalted  more  than  it  astonished,  and  his  sweet,  though  pow¬ 
erful  voice,  melted  and  subdued,  as  often  as  it  thrilled  and 


dora’s  children. 


165 


animated.  I  believe  that  every  singer  sings  out  of  his  or 
her  own  heart;  and  that  they  of  the  world,  worldly,  may 
sing  brilliantly  and  purely,  but  must  sing  coldly.  Their 
notes  fall  like  hailstones,  as  hard,  yet  untreasurable ;  while 
the  music  which  flows  out  of  a  warm,  beneflcent  heart,  in 
rich  and  liquid  tones,  is  like  a  generous  summer  rain,  and 
every  heart  which  hears  is  like  a  thirsty  flower-cup,  grate¬ 
fully  receiving  the  plenteous  shower,  and  taking  from  it 
renewals  of  life. 

Captain  Preston  did  wisely  in  placing  his  daughter  under 
the  tuition  of  Mr.  St.  John.  To  a  character  of  rare  good¬ 
ness,  of  almost  angelic  purity,  the  young  tutor  united  a  clear, 
practical  mind,  manners  gentle  and  persuasive,  yet  marked 
by  a  native  dignity  with  which  no  one  would  presume  to 
trifle.  Of  his  genius  and  personal  beauty  Mr.  St.  John  was 
equally  unconscious.  The  first  he  named  ‘  an  enthusiasm  ;  ’ 
and,  with  an  artist’s  love  for  such  manly  beauty  as  belonged 
of  old  to  the  Greek  athlete,  he  never  dreamed  that  the  word 
could  be  applied  to  aught  in  his  pale  face  or  slight  frame. 
But  to  others  the  graceful  delicacy  of  his  form,  and  the 
absence  of  the  full-bloodedness  of  high  health  from  his 
finely  chiselled  features,  gave  to  him  much  of  that  peculiar 
purity  and  spirituality  which  never  failed  to  impress  those 
who  approached  him.  And  yet  Ernest  St.  John  was  in  no 
way  effeminate  —  but  rich  in  all  the  strength,  and  bravery, 
and  honor  of  true  manhood,  though  mingled  with  the  ten¬ 
derness  of  woman,  and  the  fresh-heartedness  of  the  child. 

After  escaping  from  the  control  of  a  strict  and  somewhat 
arbitrary  governess,  Pauline  congratulated  herself  that  under 
the  new  regime  she  might  follow  the  bent  of  her  will,  and 
indulge  her  caprices  to  her  heart’s  content.  But  she  soon 
became  aware  that  her  tutor,  young  and  handsome  though 
he  was,  exerted  over  her  a  power  more  absolute  than  that 
which  lies  in  words  of  command  and  an  imperious  will  — 
the  unconscious  sovereignty  of  a  high  and  noble  mind,  that 
seemed  never  to  know  a  weak  or  an  unworthy  impulse,  and 


166 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


the  calming,  subduing  influence  of  a  gentle  and  equable 
manner,  never  disturbed  by  small  excitements,  or  darkened 
by  moodiness. 

Something  there  was  in  his  presence,  which  made  Pauline 
ashamed  of  the  thousand  little  caprices,  the  girlish  affec¬ 
tations,  the  outbreaks  of  petulance  and  impatience,  in  which 
she  had  too  often  indulged.  She  began  almost  involuntarily 
to  check  herself  in  the  expression  of  a  worldly  ambition 
which  too  early  had  found  lodgment  in  her  heart,  in  the 
utterance  of  a  false  or  narrow  sentiment,  and  in  any  betrayal 
of  that  pride  and  vanity  which  yet  toward  others  were  re¬ 
vealed  in  her  haughty  eye,  the  bearing  of  her  head,  her 
dress,  her  walk,  and  even  in  the  light  and  careless  tones  of 
her  Voice.  Yet  toward  his  pupil  did  Mr.  St.  John  never 
make  use  of  a  word  of  sarcasm,  or  stern  rebuke.  He  met 
her  little  affectations  with  a  still,  peculiar  smile,  which  never 
failed  to  send  the  blood  to  her  very  forehead ;  but  when  she 
gave  ever  so  light  a  voice  to  a  sentiment  unworthy  the  great 
heart  of  a  true  woman,  he  would  fix  his  soft,  brown  eyes 
upon  her  face,  with  a  half-wondering,  half-sorrowful  ex¬ 
pression,  and  on  the  instant  she  would  wish  the  foolish 
words  unsaid. 

What  wonder  that  Pauline’s  character  gradually  grew 
into  harmony  with  Ernest’s  more  harmonious  nature  ?  What 
wonder  that  the  pure,  womanly  soul  which  he  had  thus 
attuned  to  diviner  melodies  than  ever  were  drawn  from 
human  voice  or  cunning  instrument,  became  something  in¬ 
finitely  dear  and  sacred  to  the  young  artist  ?  What  wonder 
that  the  hearts  of  the  two  blended,  with  the  blending  of 
their  voices  ? 

Yet  though  the  most  beautiful  relations  of  affection  and 
confidence  existed  between  the  friends,  they  were  not  be¬ 
trothed,  or  acknowledged  lovers.  Though  Ernest  became  at 
last  aware  that  the  affection  he  felt  for  his  pupil  was  the  one 
great  love  of  his  life,  he  was  painfully  doubtful  of  the 
strength  of  her  regard  for  himself.  He  saw  her  beautiful, 


dora’s  children. 


167 


brilliant,  and  accomplished  —  he  understood  her  pride  and 
social  ambition,  and  feared  that  the  humble  alliance,  the 
quiet  home,  the  tender  love  —  the  all  he  could  offer  would 
fail  to  satisfy  her.  So  it  was,  that  he  let  year  after  year  go 
by,  and  gave  no  language  to  the  love  which  overflowed  his 
soul,  and  swelled  in  every  pulsation  of  his  heart.  And  at 
length,  a  new,  sad  motive  was  given  him  for  silence  !  His 
health,  which  had  never  been  robust,  grew  more  and  more 
delicate,  until,  after  a  winter  and  spring  of  almost  entire 
confinement,  his  physician  decided  that  he  must  spend  the 
next  winter  in  Cuba,  if  he  would  preserve  his  life. 

Pauline  was  twenty  that  summer  —  in  high  beauty  and 
more  in  demand  as  a  belle  than  ever  before  ;  yet  she  left 
her  invalid  tutor  with  sincere  reluctance,  to  join  some 
fashionable  friends  for  a  season  at  Newport.  Her  father  at 
the  same  time  took  her  sister  —  who  was  more  poetic  in  her 
tastes,  and  timidly  shrank  from  crowds  —  on  a  tour  co 
Niagara  and  the  Lakes. 

The  season  was  an  uncommonly  brilliant  one,  and  New¬ 
port  was  thronged  with  fashionables.  There  was  the  youth 
just  from  college,  with  a  high  collar  and  a  feeble  moustache, 
striving  to  hide  his  real  verdancy  under  the  air  of  a  dashing 
man  of  the  world,  verging  on  the  roue  ;  and  the  miss,  newly 
emancipated  from  school,  rapidly  becoming  ashamed  of,  and 
as  rapidly  losing,  her  greatest  charms  — simplicity  and 
ready  blushes.  There  were  eager  hunters  on  the  scent  of 
heiresses,  and  solicitous  mammas,  with  daughters  exceed¬ 
ingly  marriageable,  in  all  points,  save  a  slight  moneyed 
deficiency.  There  was  the  belle  of  many  seasons,  whose 
beauty  seemed  somewhat  overdone  by  long  toasting,  but 
who  still  supported  all  the  honors  of  bellehood  with  exem¬ 
plary  spirit,  and  gallantly  hung  out  her  faded  colors  —  with 
the  superannuated  beau,  still  making  a  successful  stand 
against  grayness  or  baldness  of  head,  and  submitting  with 
the  best  •  possible  grace  to  the  rotundity  of  figure  and 
rubicundity  of  visage,  coming  as  the  penalty  of  pleasant 


168 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


little  sins  in  the  way  of  eating  and  drinking  —  still  youthful 
in  air,  and  exquisite  in  dress,  in  spite  of  some  frosts  of  time 
which  had  fallen  upon  his  hopes  and  his  whiskers  —  still 
4  jolly  under  the  creditable  circumstances  ’  of  deafness  and 
gout. 

There  were  the  usual  number  of  invalids,  but  less,  by  far, 
than  Pauline  expected  to  see>  She  soon  learned  that  few 
indeed  resort  to  the  more  fashionable  bathing  and  watering 
places  for  rest,  or  the  restoration  of  health. 

A  few  evenings  after  her  arrival,  as  Pauline  was  riding 
on  the  beach  in  an  open  barouche,  with  her  friend  and 
chaperone,  they  were  passed  and  repassed  by  a  gentleman 
in  a  phaeton,  driving  a  pair  of  superb  grays.  There  was  a 
foreign  look  about  the  turnout,  and  the  air  of  the  gentleman 
himself  was  unmistakably  trans-Atlantic.  His  figure  and 
dress  were  simply  elegant,  but  his  face  was  most  peculiar  in 
its  character.  It  was  both  attractive  and  repulsive.  There 
was  a  degree  of  purity  in  his  clear,  olive  complexion,  and 
the  delicate,  well-preserved  outline  of  his  handsome  features, 
indicative  of  refinement ;  but  the  half-sad,  half-sinister  ex¬ 
pression  of  his  intense  black  eyes,  the  passionate  curve  of 
his  thin  nostril,  a  certain  dissatisfied  droop  of  his  mouth, 
with  lips  not  full,  yet  soft  in  their  lines,  bespoke  a  volup¬ 
tuary  of  the  rarest  and  most  dangerous  type. 

He  appeared  struck  by  Pauline’s  beauty  when  he  first 
approached,  and  cast  furtive  glances  at  her  as  he  passed,  but 
did  not  offend  by  an  open  gaze  ;  while  on  her  part,  Pauline 
felt  her  eyes  involuntarily  following  him  till  he  was  out  of 
sight,  and  she  returned  to  her  hotel,  feeling  that  there  had 
been  some  strange  fatality  in  that  casual  meeting. 

On  the  following  evening,  Mr.  Niel,  the  husband  of  her 
chaperone,  entered  the  drawing-room  with  the  stranger, 
■whom  he  begged  leave  to  present  to  his  wife  and  Miss 
Preston.  From  his  appearance,  Pauline  had  imagined  him 
a  French  Marquis,  an  Italian  Count,  or  a  Spanish  Don,  and 
was  slightly  disappointed  to  find  him  only  plain  Mr.  Elliot, 


dora’s  children. 


169 


an  English  gentleman,  Yet  it  may  be  that,  fiom  this  dis¬ 
covery,  she  felt  more  at  ease  in  his  presence  ,  ceitain  it  is 
that,  ere  the  evening  was  over,  she  found  herself  chatting 
with  him  quite  pleasantly  and  familiarly  —  the  vague  feeling 
of  apprehension  which  had  troubled  her  at  first  sight  only 
coming  to  her  momentarily,  when  she  felt  most  the  strange 
power  of  his  mocking  and  melancholy  eyes,  of  his  sweet 
but  insincere  voice,  and  the  subtle  triumph  of  his  smile. 

Mr.  Elliot,  now  about  thirty-eight,  was  a  gentleman  of 
large  fortune  and  high  connections.  His  father  was  of  pure 
Enodish  descent,  but  he  had  been  born  of  an  Italian  mother, 
and  seemed  to  have  inherited  alike  her  dark  beauty  and 
her  passionate  southern  nature.  Gifted  with  extraordinary 
talent,  his  family  had  looked  to  see  him  attain  to  eminence 
and  power  in  the  political  world  ;  but  toward  the  life  of  the 
statesman  he  had  little  leaning  ;  and  after  a  year  or  two  in 
Parliament,  he  utterly  and  forever  abjured  politics.  Too 
indolent  to  he  ambitious,  with  a  native  passion  for  art,  in  all 
its  forms,  and,  it  must  be  said,  with  an  insolent  rebellion 
against  the  moralities  of  English  society,  he,  while  yet 
young,  virtually  expatriated  himself,  and  gave  himself  up  to 
all  the  pleasures  and  freedom  of  Italian  life. 

It  was  said  that  there  was  a  time  when  Luigi  Elliot  might 
have  been  saved  from  a  career  so  unworthy  ;  that  a  fiist 
and  pure  love  had  been  repaid  by  inconstancy  and  dishonoi  ; 
and  that  the  bitterness  and  madness  of  his  disappointment 
had  driven  him  into  a  life  from  which  his  better  natuie 
revolted.  However  that  might  be,  he  seemed  the  insatiable 
enemy  of  woman,  and  terribly  did  he  revenge  himself  upon 
many  for  the  falsehood  of  one.  Yet  he  was  not  all  bad 
hopelessly  lost  and  depraved :  there  were  rifts  of  brightness 
breaking  through  the  clouds  of  evil.  He  was  once  known 
to  spare  a  poor  girl  who  loved  him  wildly,  and  whom  he 
loved  after  his  way  —  to  spare  her  when  she  was  wholly  in 
his  power,  because  he  suddenly  saw  in  her  a  look  like 
his  one  sister  — -  a  sister  from  whom  his  errors  had  long 

15 


170 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


estranged  him,  and  from  whom  he  had  just  parted  in  anger. 
Yet  it  seemed  that  the  good  within  him  often  but  gave 
greater  power  to  the  evil,  adding  the  charm  of  sadness  and 
tenderness  to  the  force  of  passion.  Ah  !  there  is  a  terrible 
fascination  in  a  nature  so  passionate  and  strong,  sweeping 
on  like  a  swift,  turbid  torrent  of  evil,  yet  bearing  on  its 
breast  tender  sprays  and  torn  flowers  and  fragments  of 
noble  structures,  the  evidences  of  original  beauty  and  early 
aspirations  after  truth.  Is  there  under  God’s  heavens  a 
sight  more  fearful  than  such  a  wasted  and  wasting  life  pre¬ 
sents  ? 

And  it  was  under  the  influence  of  this  accomplished  man 
of  the  world,  this  refined  rowe,  this  unbeliever  in  love,  this 
betrayer  of  women,  that  Pauline  Preston  had  now  fallen  ! 

Mr.  Elliot  having  been  forced  to  visit  England,  to  take 
possession  of  an  immense  fortune  on  the  death  of  his 
father,  had,  while  there,  suddenly  taken  the  fancy  to  see 
the  New  World  ;  a  plan  which  promised,  at  least,  to  dissi¬ 
pate  for  a  time  the  ennui  which  oppressed  him.  He  brought 
excellent  letters,  he  created  a  decided  sensation  wherever 
he  appeared  ;  beauties  blushed,  mammas  looked  gracious, 
and  papas  propitious,  for  the  auriole  of  his  wealth  made 
such  marvellous  brightness,  that  few  saw  the  shadow  of  his 
libertinism.  But  no  glance,  no  smile  of  beauty,  had  power 
to  disturb,  by  a  single  ripple,  the  dead  calm  of  his  life’s 
now  passionless  sea,  until  he  met  Pauline  Preston.  At 
once  he  recognised  something  powerful  and  kindred  in  the 
quick  blood  which  fluctuated  in  her  glowing  face,  the  pride 
of  her  lips,  and  the  imperious  will  which  rode  triumphant  in 
her  glances.  But  most  of  all,  there  was  in  her  singing  a 
wild,  exulting  energy,  a  glorious,  uprising  spirit,  which 
swept  over  him  such  a  flow  of  emotion  as  he  had  never 
known  when  listening  to  the  most  artistic  performance  of 
an  Italian  cantatrice ,  all  passion  and  no  soul. 

After  winning,  by  skilful  management,  the  confidence  of 
her  friends,  Elliot  was  often  at  Pauline’s  side,  paying  her 


dora’s  children.  171 

the  most  assiduous,  yet  delicate,  and  deferential  homage. 
As  for  her,  though  she  continued  to  doubt  him  in  his  ab¬ 
sence,  she  now  always  felt  her  warning  fears  vanish  before 
the  charm  of  his  presence,  before  the  eloquence  of  his 
glance,  the  persuasion  of  his  smile,  and  that  most  dangerous 
flattery  ever  addressed  to  woman,  the  confidential,  self¬ 
reproachful  tone  in  which  he  would  sometimes  speak  ot  his 
past  life  —  hinting  at  sorrows  and  errors,  with  the  recital  of 
which  he  would  not  pain  her  gentle  heart. 

It  may  not  be  that  Mr.  Elliot  approached  Pauline  Preston 
with  any  purer  sentiments  or  more  honorable  designs  than 
those  with  which  he  had  been  long  wont  to  approach 
women  ;  but  certain  it  is,  that  he  soon  acknowledged  the 
rare  dignity,  pride,  and  purity  of  her  character,  and  if  he 
had  had  any  base  purposes  at  the  first,  finally  abandoned 
them.  But  Pauline  he  found  it  impossible  to  abandon.  All 
the  love  of  which  a  nature  so  warped  and  wasted  as  his  was 
capable,  drew  him  toward  the  beautiful  American.  At  last, 
a  strange  thought  flashed  across  his  mind.  Why  might  he 
not  make  her  his  wife  ?.  It  was  time  he  married.  He  cared 
little  for  rank  ;  he  had  abundant  wealth,  and  she.  could  not 
fail  to  grace  any  station  to  which  he  might  raise  her.  Then, 
marriage  would  be  a  novelty  in  his  life,  would  rescue  him 
from  absolute  ennui  for  a  season.  And  so  it  happened, 
that  the  night  preceding  her  departure  for  home,  Pauline 
saw  deposited  at  her  feet,  in  due  form,  the  heart  and  fortune 
of  her  elegant  admirer.  She  felt  that  this  proposal  was 
made  too  proudly  and  confidently,  yet  for  her  soul  she 
could  not  decline  it  haughtily,  or  decline  it  at  all,  with  that 
man’s  eyes  upon  her.  Pie  bound  her  by  some  strong,  mys¬ 
terious  spell ;  she  did  not  love  him,  yet  his  love  seemed  to 
come  to  her  with  the  force  of  a  fatality,  a  destiny.  She 
felt  his  passion  wrapping  her  about,  like  a  sheet  of  flame. 
It  touched  her  veins,  it  seemed  to  lighten  on  her  brain,  but 
her  inmost  heart  was  as  ice.  She  felt  that  those  things  in 
her  nature  with  which  he  had  somewhat  arrogantly  claimed 


172 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


kindred,  were  but  the  wild  waves  on  the  now  troubled  sur¬ 
face  of  her  being,  answering  faintly  to  the  all-storm  of  the 
all-surface  of  his.  But  she  knew  that  in  the  depths  there  was 
stillness,  and  she  knew  that  there  was  a  soul  of  perfect  calm, 
and  deep  as  all  life,  to  which  that  truly  answered.  She 
knew  that  there  was  one,  and  one  only,  by  whose  side  she 
had  sat  hour  after  hour,  in  the  voiceless  communion  of  the 
spirit ;  when  the  lips  were  stillest,  because  the  heart  spoke 
most ;  when  the  ear  of  the  soul  alone  might  hear  ‘  deep 
calling  unto  deep.’ 

All  this  Pauline  felt,  yet  she  had  not  courage  to  say  to 
Mr.  Elliot  —  ‘  I  am  proud  of  your  regard,  but  I  cannot  be 
your  wife.  You  attract,  you  sway  me  by  a  power  I  do  not 
understand,  yet  I  do  not  love  you.’  She  could  only  stammer 
out,  that  she  must  see  .her  father  before  she  could  decide  ; 
and,  considering  the  battle  as  won,  Mr.  Elliot  had  called  her 
his  4  dearest  Pauline,’  had  passionately  kissed  her  hand,  and 
folded  it  to  his  heart,  ere  she  roused  herself  sufficiently  to 
bid  him  good  night,  leave  the  balcony  on  which  they  were 
standing,  and  retire  to  her  room. 

On  the  evening  of  her  arrival  at  home,  a  number  of  Pau¬ 
line’s  friends  came  in,  to  welcome  her  back,  and  she  soon 
found  that  she  had  been  preceded  by  rumors  of  her  brilliant 
conquest.  Some  gaily  offered  congratulations,  which  were 
as  gaily  parried  by  Pauline.  Ernest  alone  made  not  the 
slightest  reference  to  the  matter,  and  she  scarcely  knew 
whether  to  be  pleased  or  annoyed  by  his  silence.  In  the 
course  of  the  morning  she  summoned  courage  to  lay  her 
affair  before  her  father,  who,  as  she  had  expected,  left  the 
important  decision  entirely  in  her  own  hands,  only  counsel¬ 
ling  her  to  know  well  her  own  heart,  and  to  follow  its 
strongest  and  highest  impulses. 

In  the  afternoon  Pauline  walked  over  to  the  pleasant  old 
homestead  of  the  St.  Johns,  to  practise  some  new  music 
with  her  tutor.  There  was  much  intimacy  between  the 
families,  as  Ernest’s  widowed  mother  had  been  the  dearest 


173 


bora’s  children. 

friend  of  Dora  Preston,  and  had  ever  felt  toward  her  chil¬ 
dren  a  peculiar  tenderness.  Pauline  found  Ernest  looking 
paler  and  sadder  than  usual,  but  he  welcomed  her  with  the 
same  sweet  smile  his  face  had  always  worn  for  her.  Ah  ! 
that  sunny  smile,  so  full  of  faith  and  love  !  how  often  had 
it  shone  down  the  night  of  that  dark  influence  which  so 
lately  had  fallen  about  her.  The  two  strove  to  chat  together 
gaily,  as  of  old,  but  with  ill  success.  Pauline  seated  heiself 
at  the  piano,  and  stormed  through  a  brilliant  overture  ;  then 
sung,  half  playfully,  half  defiantly,  a  mocking  song  of 
Moore’s.  After  a  moment’s  silence,  she  looked  up  into  her 
tutor’s  troubled  face,  and,  with  one  of  her  wild  impulses, 
said,  4  Ernest,  have  you  heard  the  great  news  of  my  ap¬ 
proaching  marriage  ?  ’ 

A  faint  flush  passed  over  Ernest’s  face,  but  he  answered 
quietly,  4  Yes,  I  have  heard  such  a  rumor,’  then  added  — 

*  Will  it  please  you  to  play  this  piece  ?  ’ 

‘  No,  it  will  not  please  me  !  ’  said  Pauline  hastily,  rising 
from  the  piano,  and  taking  up  her  hat;  but  in  a  moment 
she  added,  more  softly  — 

‘  I  do  not  feel  like  playing  any  longer  —  I  am  not  in  a 
harmonious  mood  to-day.  Adieu  ;  ’  and  she  hurried  down 
the  garden  walk,  without  even  looking  back,  as  she  had 
often  done,  from  the  gate.  Oh,  that  she  had  looked  back  ! 
so  that  she  might  have  seen  the  tears  in  Ernest  s  soriowful 
eyes  _  go  that  he  might  have  seen  the  tears  on  her  angry 
cheek.  But  no  matter. 

She  hastened  home  —  ran  to  her  room,  and  flinging  her¬ 
self  into  a  favorite  arm-chair  which  had  once  been  her 
mother’s,  buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  and  sobbed  aloud, 
murmuring  passionately  and  bitterly  — 4  He  does  not  love 
me !  he  never  loved  me  !  He  spoke  as  calmly  of  my 
marriage  as  he  could  speak  of  my  taking  a  stioll  this  still 
evening.  He  is  too  proud  in  his  goodness  to  love  me ,  so 
weak,  so  full  of  faults.  Oh,  God  !  can  he  not  see  that  in 
his  love  lies  my  safety,  my  redemption !  Oh,  mother, 

15* 


174 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


i 

mother,  did  you  ever  sit  in  this  chair  with  such  a  heavy 
heart  —  with  such  a  despairing,  distracted  heart  as  mine  ?  ’ 

The  utterance  of  that  dear  and  sacred  name  seemed  to 
bring  peace  to  the  poor  child,  for  she  grew  calmer,  and  at 
last  ceased  weeping.  But,  as  she  raised  her  head,  her  eye 
fell  upon  something  on  the  table  before  her,  little  calculated 
to  deepen  her  calmness  —  a  letter  in  the  not  unfamiliar 
hand  of  Luigi  Elliot.  With  a  sudden  trembling,  too  like  a 
shudder  passing  over  her  frame,  and  yet  with  a  gleam  of 
pride  in  her  eye,  she  broke  the  seal  and  read,  what  the 
writer  called  4  only  a  few  simple  words,’  which  her  abrupt 
departure  on  the  night  of  their  interview  had  prevented  his 
speaking  to  her. 

An  artist  in  the  use  of  his  native  English,  Elliot  seemed 
here  indebted  to  it  for  forms  alone  —  to  have  in  some  subtle 
manner  interfused  with  the  words  the  soft  and  passionate 
spirit  of  his  mother’s  sweet  and  melodious  Italian  —  the 
love-language  of  the  world.  It  was  an  eloquent,  an  im¬ 
passioned,  and  a  strong  outpouring  of  love  —  a  love  full  of 
the  glow,  the  almost  fierce  intensity,  the  wildness  and  the 
sensuousness  of  the  South. 

So  like  his  presence  was  that  letter,  that  Pauline  grew 
pale  and  powerless  over  it ;  she  saw  the  fatal  sweetness  of 
his  smile,  looked  down  into  the  unfathomable  darkness  of 
his  eyes,  as  she  read. 

Ah,  what  pictures  he  painted  of  the  life  to  which  he 
would  lead  her  !  4  Go  with  me,’  he  said,  4  to  England,  and 

see  the  glorious  old  Fatherland  —  see  the  great  world  in  all 
its  splendor  —  your  peerless  beauty  was  born  to  illumine 
palaces  and  courts!  Go  with  me  to  gay,  delightful  France 
—  your  perfect  organization  was  meant  to  take  in  joy 
through  all  the  senses  !  Go  with  me  to  Switzerland,  and 
behold  Nature  in  all  her  terrible  beauty,  her  unapproachable 
grandeur  !  Go  with  me  to  Italy  —  and  see  art  in  its  divinest 
creations,  life  in  its  richness,  fulness,  and  freedom  !  ’ 

Late  that  night,  alone  in  her  chamber,  sat  Pauline,  pale, 


dora’s  children. 


175 


but  quite  calm,  penning  a  brief  letter  of  acceptance  to  Luigi 
Elliot.  On  the  table  by  her  lay  the  beginnings  of  two  or 
three  letters  bearing  his  name  —  which,  dissatisfied  with, 
she  had  flung  aside.  The  one  now  before  her  she  some¬ 
what  hastily  finished,  enveloped,  directed,  and  sealed.  This 
done,  she  sat  for  some  moments  in  a  deep  reverie,  then 
opening  her  desk,  she  took  from  thence  a  small  package  of 
papers,  tied  with  a  rose-colored  ribbon.  These  were 
Ernest’s  letters  and  notes,  with  some  few  little  poems  of 
his  —  every  line  he  had  ever  written  to  her.  She  read  them 
all,  as  well  as  her  tears  would  let,her  then  taking  the 
first,  a  pretty  birth-day  tribute,  she  held  it  in  the  blaze  of 
her  taper  till  it  was  burned  to  ashes.  Ah,  she  could  do  no 
more,  but  gathering  the  others  to  her  heart,  she  cried 

4 1  cannot  burn  them  to-night  —  my  tears  would  put  out 
the  flame  !  I  must  keep  them  a  little  while  longer  it  will 
not  be  wrong  to  keep  them  till  I  have  parted  from  him  foi 
the  last  time.  Then  I  will  burn  them  all,  and  my  love  with 
them  —  and  wear  the  ashes  on  my  heart  always. 

Murmuring  such  wild  words  as  these,  Pauline  flung  hei- 
self  down  on  her  couch,  and  exhausted  by  the  fierce  stiife 
of  contending  emotions,  sobbed  herself  to  sleep. 

And  Pauline  dreamed. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  her  bridal  day  had  come,  and  that 
she  stood  in  her  mother’s  chamber,  before  the  miiror,  airay- 
ing  herself  for  the  altar.  A  dress  of  shining  satin  and 
exquisite  lace  fell  about  her  in  rich  folds  costly  gifts  weie 
scattered  around,  and  a  casket  of  magnificent  jewels  was 
open  before  her.  She  dreamed  that  as  she  was  tiying  to 
clasp  a  bracelet  on  her  arm,  her  mother  glided  in,  looking 
just  as  she  remembered  her  in  her  last  sickness  so  sweet 
and  pale  —  drew  near,  and  with  her  own  white  fingeis 
fastened  the  pearls.  Pauline  dreamed  that  she  felt  no  tenoi 
nor  surprise,  but  was  glad  and  grateful  for  her  mothei  s 
presence.  At  length  all  was  finished,  save  the  biidal  wreath 
and  veil  —  but,  as  Pauline  was  lifting  the  circlet  of  delicate 


176 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


orange-blossoms,  to  place  it  on  her  brow-,  her  mother  said, 
solemnly,  ‘  Stay,  my  daughter  —  I  have  brought  you  a 
wreath,  befitting  far  better  a  marriage  such  as  yours  !  ’ 

The  bride  looked  at  the  wreath  which  her  mother  held, 
and  saiv  that  it  ivas  of  cypress  ! 

With  a  low  cry,  Pauline  awoke.  The  taper  she  had  left 
burning  on  her  desk  had  gone  out,  and  the  moonlight  was 
flooding  the  chamber.  A  fresh  night  wind  was  sweeping 
the  curtains  to  and  fro,  and  swaying  the  vines  against  the 
casement  —  all  else  was  still.  Yet  Pauline  knew  that  her 
mother  had  been  there,  and  brought  that  dream  ! 

She  rose  —  went  to  her  desk,  and  finding  by  the  moon¬ 
light  the  letter  which  she  had  written  to  Luigi  Elliot,  she 
tore  it  into  small  fragments  and  scattered  it  on  the  floor. 
She  then  laid  herself  quietly  down,  crossed  her  hands  on 
her  breast,  thanked  God,  and  slept. 

In  the  morning,  Pauline  Preston  wrote  to  Mr.  Elliot  a 
letter  longer  than  the  one  of  the  night  previous,  but  of  far 
different  import.  It  was  one  that  saved  his  pride  while  it 
disapppointed  his  hope  —  that  exalted  his  passionate  love 
into  an  almost  adoring  reverence.  Not  all  in  vain  were  his 
suffering,  and  Pauline’s  fiery  trial,  if  his  unchastened, 
worldly  heart  had  been  taught  one  sentiment  of  genuine 
respect  for  woman. 

Pauline  remained  quietly  at  home  that  day  —  feeling 
more  pain  from  the  decision  she  had  been  called  upon  to 
make  than  she  allowed  to  appear.  She  had  indeed  been  cru¬ 
elly  tempted  at  every  weak  point  in  her  character,  and  she 
was  now  suffering  from  the  spiritual  lassitude  which  often 
follows  struggles  like  these.  As  she  was  sitting  alone  in 
her  room  at  twilight,  another  letter  was  brought  in.  She 
took  it  mechanically,  but  her  dull  eye  brightened  and  her 
cold  cheek  flushed  as  she  saw  that  it  was  from  Ernest. 
Hastily  lighting  a  lamp,  and  flinging  herself  into  her 
mother’s  chair,  she  read  : 

1  Dearest  Pauline:  —  I  can  no  longer  keep  silence  — 


dora’s  children. 


177 


I  must  tell  you,  though  so  abruptly,  and  in  words  whose 
meaning  you  cannot  mistake,  that  which  my  eyes  should 
long  since  have  betrayed.  I  love  you,  Pauline  —  love  you, 
not  alone  with  the  love  of  a  tutor  and  friend  not  with  a 
brother’s  love,  but  with  all  the  devotion  and  tenderness  of 
my  heart  —  with  the  mightiest  passion  of  my  soul. 

4 1  cannot  look  back  and  behold  when  this  love  began  — 
it  seems  to  me  to  have  had  no  beginning,  as  it  can  have  no 
end.  From  early  boyhood  to  manhood,  it  has  kept  even 
pace  with  my  spirit  —  has  4  ‘  grown  with'  my  growth,  and 
strengthened  with  my  strength”  —  ay,  more  than  this,  has 
become  stronger,  and  dearer,  and  deeper  than  my  life. 

4 1  should  have  spoken  long  since,  but  from  the  fear  that 
my  love  might  stand  in  the  way  of  your  better  foitune 
and  oh,  Pauline,  so  purely  and  unselfishly  have  I  loved  you 
ever,  that  I  could  have  made  my  heart  a  stepping-stone  for 
you  to  happiness  and  honor.  But  since  I  have  heard  those 
rumors  of  your  engagement,  I  have  been  conscious  that 
pride  was  the  strongest  motive  of  my  silence,  and  that  I 
can  crush.  This  love  which  I  have  so  striven  to  shut  away 
from  you,  and  hide  in  my  deepest  heart,  is  yours,  your 
heritage  and  just  desert,  and  I  have  no  right  to  with¬ 
hold  it  from  you,  even  though  you  may  lightly  value  the 

possession. 

4  If  I  have  spoken  too  late,  vainly  spoken,  my  heart  may 
break,  but  it  will  bless  you  still,  for  in  loving  you,  it  has 
been  lifted  nearer  Heaven  and  filled  with  deeper  blessings 
than  the  world  can  give.  I  go  from  you  soon  whether  to 
be  laid  beneath  a  stranger  soil,  or  to  return  with  renewed 
health,  God  alone  knows. 

4  And  now,  farewell.  If  we  may  meet  no  more,  as  we 
have  met,  do  not,  I  pray  you,  quite  forget  our  past,  with 
its  pleasant  companionship,  its  mirth,  and  its  music.  And 
oh,  Pauline,  in  the  pride  and  happiness  of  another  love,  will 
you  not  let  mine  sometimes  come  to  you  as  a  still  benedic¬ 
tion,  or  descend  upon  you  in  that  perfect  peace  for  which 
mv  soul  besieges  Heaven  with  ceaseless  implorings  ? 


178 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


‘  May  God  himself  minister  with  li is  abundant  love  to  a 
nature  so  wide  and  strong  in  the  grasp  of  its  affections  —  to 
a  heart  so  proud  and  high,  and  yet  so  tender,  so  childlike, 
so  fearfully  sensitive  as  yours.  Ernest.’ 

When  Pauline  had  read  and  re-read  the  above  letter, 
kissed  it,  and  hid  it  near  her  heart,  she  flung  a  veil  over  her 
head,  and  with  one  of  her  true,  blessed  impulses,  walked 
straight  across  the  common,  to  the  house  of  Mrs.  St.  John. 

The  evening  was  warm,  and  she  found  the  doors  open. 
No  one  was  in  the  parlor,  and  the  lamps  were  not  yet  lit. 
She  passed  on  into  the  little  library,  Ernest's  own  room, 
where  stood  his  piano,  where  hung  his  few  favorite  pictures, 
and  shone  in  the  moonlight  busts  of  the  poets  and  small 
copies  of  rare  works  of  art.  Ernest  himself  was  sitting 
by  the  window,  alone,  gazing  dreamily  out  into  the  clear, 
bright  night.  He  did  not  hear  Pauline’s  soft  step  as  she 
glided  to  his  side,  where  leaning  against  his  chair,  she 
looked  down  upon  him.  His  delicate  hands  were  clasped 
together,  and  Pauline  saw  in  the  moonlight  tears  on  the 
long  lashes  of  his  sad,  brown  eyes.  She  laid  her  hand  on 
his  forehead  so  gently  that  he  hardly  started  as  he  looked 
up  —  she  bent  and  kissed  his  eyes,  all  tears  as  they  were, 
and  while  he  was  silent  with  joy  and  wonderment,  she 
said  — 

‘  Thus,  Ernest,  I  answer  your  letter  !  I  will  go  with  you 

to  Cuba,  if  you  will  take  me  —  take  this  heart  with  all  its 

_  */ 

waywardness,  its  faults,  its  follies,  and  oh,  Ernest,  with  all 
its  love  !  ’ 

She  said  no  more,  for  a  lover’s  first  kiss  of  pure,  unutter¬ 
able  joy  stayed  her  words  —  she  said  no  more  for  many 
minutes,  for  her  face  was  laid  against  the  heart  of  Ernest, 
and  her  own  tears  were  flowing  fast.  Ah,  what  deep  thank¬ 
fulness  filled  her  soul  —  what  repentance  for  all  past  errors 
—  what  a  delicious  sense  of  safety  —  what  a  rest  was  there 
of  heart  on  heart  —  what  a  close,  and  perfect,  and  holy 
union  of  the  spirit ! 


dora’s  children.  179 

At  length,  she  raised  her  head  and  murmured  — 

‘  You  will  not  die,  Ernest  ?  You  surely  will  not  die  ?’ 

‘  How  can  I  die,  beloved,  bound  thus  to  life  !  ’ 

Pauline  went  with  Ernest,  her  husband,  to  Cuba,  that 
autumn.  By  the  next  June  they  returned  —  Ernest  per¬ 
fectly  restored  to  health  ;  and  Pauline  —  ah,  could  you  have 
seen  her  then,  you  would  have  said  that  the  wide  earth  did 
not  contain  a  happier  or  a  prouder  wife. 

One  evening,  soon  after  their  return,  they  were  together 
in  Ernest’s  little  library,  the  very  air  of  which  seemed 
sweet,  and  sacred  with  the  associations  of  their  love  and 
betrothal. 

Pauline  was  seated  at  the  piano  —  her  husband  was 
bending  over  her,  and  both  were  singing.  As  the  last  notes 
of  one  of  the  heart-searching  songs  of  Burns  died  away, 
Pauline,  looking  up  with  a  smile,  said  — 

4  There  was  a  time,  Ernest,  when  I  thought  there  was 
no  music  in  the  world  like  your  voice  ;  but  I  have  heard 
sweeter,  even  from  you.’ 

‘  Ah,  indeed  !  where,  and  when  ?  ’ 

‘  Here,  Ernest,  when  I  first  leaned  my  head  against  your 
breast,  and  listened  to  the  full,  fast  beating  of  your  heart.’ 

4  The  sound  was  music  to  you,  dearest,  because  it  kept 
time  to  God’s  own  highest  melody  —  love' 


LOUISE  PRESTON. 

Of  all  Dora’s  children,  none  changed  so  much  in  passing 
from  childhood  to  maturity,  as  Louise.  She  was  a  pale,  sad 
child,  when  her  mother  left  her  —  plain,  and  quite  uninter¬ 
esting  to  a  casual  observer,  except  as  a  look  of  suffering  and 
languor  might  excite  a  brief  feeling  of  half-pitiful  interest. 
Yet,  though  exceedingly  delicate,  the  child  had  no  positive 
disease  in  her  constitution  ;  but  she  had  unfortunate  habits, 


180 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


almost  as  difficult  to  eradicate.  Slender  and  weak-chested, 
she  had  not  strength  to  sit  erect  at  her  writing  or  books,  but 
would  bend  over  them,  hour  after  hour,  utterly  lost  to  all 
around  her  —  for,  with  an  intellect  far  beyond  her  years, 
study  was  her  one  absorbing  passion. 

Captain  Preston  did  not  begin  by  lecturing  his  shy  and 
pensive  little  girl,  or  abruptly  prohibiting  those  pursuits 
which  were  her  greatest  joy  in  life.  He  kindly  strove  to 
make  her  needful  labors  lighter  by  studying  and  reading 
with  her,  yet  often  interrupted  Pauline  and  herself,  in  the 
midst  of  a  lesson  or  an  exercise,  by  proposing  a  ride  or  a 
ramble.  Pauline,  full  of  bounding  life,  was  toujour s  prete , 
but  Louise,  at  the  first,  set  forth  with  visible  though  unex¬ 
pressed  reluctance.  Not  that  she  had  no  love  for  Nature, 
but  that  she  enjoyed  it  best  quietly  and  alone.  She  liked  to 
steal  out,  after  a  day  of  study,  to  the  seashore,  seat  herself 
upon  some  craggy  rock,  and  watch  the  moon  rise  from  the 
water.  The  dark  magnificence  of  the  scene,  the  loneliness 
of  the  shore,  the  clouds  and  the  lights  of  heaven,  the  slow 
upward  march  of  the  moon  —  and,  more  than  all,  the  swell¬ 
ing  and  moaning  of  the  sea,  impressed  her  with  wondrous 
power — intoxicated  her,  it  might  almost  be  said,  with  sub¬ 
limity —  so  filled  her  soul,  that  she  took  no  note  of  time,  and 
when  she  found  herself  at  home,  she  scarce  knew  how,  she 
would  creep  to  her  bed,  chilled  and  exhausted,  wondering 
that  she  felt  no  better  for  her  little  stroll.  She  loved  the 
woods  also,  but  when  there,  cared  only  to  lie  on  some  mossy 
bank,  and  gaze  upward,  watching  the  sun-beams  struggling 
through  the  thick  leaves,  the  blithe  squirrels  leaping  from 
branch  to  branch,  and  the  gleaming  flight  of  the  birds  —  to 
let  her  soul  float  from  her,  and  lose  herself  in  sad,  but 
delicious  reveries. 

Gradually,  and  without  apparent  design,  her  father 
changed  all  this  —  made  her  ocean  visitings  the  times  for 
active  physical  exercise  —  so  filled  her  hands  with  shells 
and  mosses,  so  tired  her  little  human  feet  with  clambering 


181 


dora’s  children. 

over  rocks,  that  her  soul  forgot  to  overload  itself  with 
sublime  thoughts.  He  changed  her  slow,  solitary  medita¬ 
tive  strolls  into  pleasant,  social  rambles  —  often  somewhat 
childish  and  idle,  but  never  wholly  objectless.  There  were 
always  to  be  sought  some  flower  or  shrub,  berries,  nuts, 
ferns,  wild  grasses,  or  many-colored  autumn  leaves. 

Captain  Preston  had  more  difficulty  in  overcoming  the 
natural  timidity  of  Louise,  and  getting  her  heartily  in  love 
with  such  sports  as  riding  and  boating.  But,  finally,  this 
good  work  was  also  accomplished — Louise  became  a  grace¬ 
ful  and  fearless  horsewoman,  while  at  rowing  she  might  have 
rivalled  Ellen  Douglas  herself. 

Captain  Preston  was  not  alone  the  counsellor  and  guide, 
but  the  companion,  the  confidant,  the  dear,  intimate  friend 
of  all  his  children  ;  yet  we  can  scarce  wonder  that  he  felt  a 
deep,  peculiar  tenderness  for  that  1  poor  little  girl,’  of  whom 
her  dying  mother  said,  ‘  She  lies  nearest  my  heart,’  or  that 
he  o-ave  himself  with  tireless  devotion  to  the  work  of  her 
moral  and  physical  training.  And  great  was  his  reward  ! 
sweet  beyond  expression  his  happiness,  when,  as  the  years 
went  by,  and  the  child  grew  into  womanhood,  he  beheld  the 
pale  cheek  flush,  the  dim  eye  brighten,  the  cold  lips  redden 
and  grow  full,  and  that  slight  and  angular  figure  round  into 
grace  and  symmetry.  At  nineteen,  though  still  small, 
Louise  was  really  beautiful  in  form  — her  chest  being  finely 
expanded,  her  neck  and  arms  as  plump  as  those  of  a  Hebe, 
and  the  poise  and  carriage  of  her  head  being  peculiarly 
spirited  and  graceful. 

The  beauty  of  her  face  remained  an  open  question, 
though  no  one  denied  to  it  rare  loveliness  of  expression. 
Her  features  were  not  quite  regular  ;  her  nose  was  a  thought 
too  short,  and  her  forehead  a  thought  too  low,  perhaps ;  her 
mouth  drooped  too  sadly  at  the  corners,  and  there  was 
sometimes  a  half  suspicious,  half  haughty  curl  of  the  upper 
lip,  neither  gracious  nor  becoming  ;  but  her  eyes  and  hair 
unquestionably  beautiful.  Ah  !  I  never  can  forget 
16 


were 


182 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


those  large,  deep,  languid,  violet  eyes,  so  thickly  shaded  by 
dark,  golden  lashes.  Her  hair  also  was  golden,  far  lighter 
than  her  mother’s,  but  in  texture  and  wavy  abundance  very 
like  Dora’s  crowning  glory.  Louise,  however,  was  quite  un¬ 
conscious  of  its  exceeding  beauty  ;  she  never  made  much  of 
it,  and  there  was  little  need  —  it  made  enough  of  itself.  *It 
seemed  that  it  might  almost  have  folded  itself  about  her  small 
Grecian  head,  in  rich  masses  and  shining  undulations,  with¬ 
out  the  aid  of  comb  or  band,  —  and  if  it  escaped  its  slight 
confinement,  and  came  tumbling  about  her  shoulders,  you 
would  beg  her  never  to  put  it  up  again,  it  fell  in  such  a 
bounteous  shower  of  gold,  such  a  cascade  of  bright  curls. 
Think  of  hair  of  this  rare  hue,  and  large,  dreamy,  dark 
blue  eyes  !  What  a  bewitching  combination  ! 

But  the  idea  of  her  plainness  had  so  taken  possession  of 
the  mind  of  Louise  in  her  childhood,  that  now  a  young  lady, 
though  she  knew  herself  in  better  health  and  spirits,  she  was 
no  prettier  in  her  own  estimation,  than  of  old.  She  com¬ 
pared  her  round,  little  figure,  her  blue  eyes  and  fair  hair, 
with  the  tail  stately  person,  the  splendid  dark  eyes  and  raven 
locks  of  her  sister,  and  pronounced  herself  diminutive,  insig¬ 
nificant,  irredeemably  plain.  Ah  !  little  did  she  know  that 
to  some  hearts  ‘  Mignonne ,’  as  her  father  called  her,  was  a 
sweeter  and  a  dearer  presence  than  the  brilliant  belle.  In 
spite  of  the  perfect  mould,  the  force  and  nobility  of  Pauline’s 
face,  that  of  Louise  was  capable  of  a  yet  higher  beauty  — 
tbe  loveliness  and  the  power  of  a  heart  of  greater  native 
deeps  —  the  sudden  glow,  the  intense,  ineffable  light  of 
genius  — <-  which,  pouring  from  her  soul,  would  overflow  her 
plain  features  till  they  seemed  almost  transfigured. 

Yet,  though  Louise  was  a  sad  unbeliever  in  her  own  at¬ 
tractiveness,  and  ever  received  with  wonder  and  childish 
gratitude,  the  love  of  those  nearest  her,  her  own  heart  went 
out  to  all  around  in  boundless  tenderness;  she  seemed  to  lie 
at  the  feet  of  her  father,  her  brother,  and  her  sister,  with  the 
soul  of  loye  and  worship  in  her  great  eyes  —  to  anticipate 


dora’s  children. 


183 


and  to  share  their  joys  and  sorrows  with  an  exquisite,  tearful 
sympathy. 

Pauline,  while  young,  never  quite  comprehended  the  deli¬ 
cate.  poetical  mind  of  her  sister,  with  its  romance,  its  fail 
dreams,  and  strange  fancies,  and  the  fine,  ethereal  genius 
which  seemed  floating  about  her  as  a  spirit,  rathei  than  tak¬ 
ing  form  in  any  thing  which  she  said  or  did,  making  her 
so  charmingly  incomprehensible,  that  Pauline  laughed  at, 

wondered  at,  and  idolized  her. 

The  father  alone  fully  understood  her,  from  having  known 
and  loved  Dora  —  that  sweet,  frail  rose,  who  seemed  to  have 
breathed  the  very  soul  of  her  sweetness  into  this  last  delicate 
bud.  He  understood  the  dreamy,  retiring  sensitiveness  of 
his  daughter,  her  modest  distrust  of  herself,  and  the  sad  un¬ 
conscious  jealousy,  which  too  often  weighed  with  a  vague 
unhappiness  on  her  heart. 

Louise  knew  that  she  was  overshadowed  by  the  sti iking 
beauty  of  her  sister  ;  but  at  this  she  never  repined,  even  in 
her  most  secret  thought.  She  gloried  in  it  rathei,  and  would 
have  said,  —  as  well  might  some  little  clover-blossom  com¬ 
plain  of  being  shadowed  by  a  rose-tree,  hanging  its  rich 
blossoms  above  her,  and  raining  about  her  sweet-scented 
leaves. 

But  the  effect  of  this  overshadowing,  and  the  result  of  her 
own  extreme  humility,  was  a  timid  shyness,  an  uttei  disin 
clination  for  general  society.  This  feeling  was  strengthened 
by  the  consciousness  of  possessing  few  elegant  accomplish¬ 
ments.  The  neglect  of  a  fine  talent  for  music,  and  a  true 
genius  for  painting  and  poetry,  had  been  the  penalty  paid  for 
her  admirable  physical  training,  her  pleasurable,  care-free 
life  of  busy  idleness.  She  sketched  a  little,  played  less, 
danced  passably,  but  excelled  in  nothing,  unless  it  was  in  a 
peculiar  style  of  singing,  or  rather  of  musical  recitation,  with 
a  slight  piano  -accompaniment,  often  improvised.  It  was 
truly  a  great  pleasure  to  listen  to  her  at  the  rare  times  when 
she  could  be  prevailed  upon  to  recite.  One  never  heaid 


184 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


from  her  any  thing  hackneyed  or  commonplace  ;  —  some¬ 
times  she  gave  quaint,  delicious  little  songs,  of  which  she 
alone  knew  the  authorship,  —  but  oftener  she  chose  the 
wildest  lays  and  sweetest  ballads  of  the  great  masters  of  song, 
and  her  voice  was  as  tender  and  mournful,  as  deep,  strong, 
and  passionate,  as  the  poet’s  own  heart,  while  her  rapt  face 
flushed  and  paled  with  thoughts,  to  whose  full  sweetness  and 
power  the  utmost  music  of  the  human  voice  can  give  but 
broken  expression. 

This  one  accomplishment,  or  rather  gift,  which  might  have 
been  cultivated  to  a  point  of  rare  artistic  excellence,  Louise 
lightly  esteemed,  and  seldom  could  be  wrought  upon  to 
4  make  a  display  of  her  domestic  music,’  as  she  called  it,  in 
society.  So  it  was,  that  by  many,  even  of  her  familiar 
friends,  the  genius  of  Louise  was  quite  unsuspected  ;  so  few 
had  seen  her  face  enhaloed  by  the  rapture  of  music  and 
song,  or  heard  her  voice  in  all  its  impassioned  depth,  its  far- 
reaching  sweetness,  and  startling  dramatic  power. 

About  three  years  from  their  marriage,  the  St.  Johns  had 
removed  to  a  pleasant  country  residence  near  the  city  of 
New  Haven  —  a  change  which  promised  well  for  Ernest’s 
professional  interests,  for  a  music-teacher  the  husband  of  our 
proud  Pauline  continued  to  be.  The  little  fortune  of  his 
wife  was  scarcely  sufficient  for  their  support  ;  and  even  had 
it  been  ample,  Ernest  possessed  a  spirit  of  honest  indepen¬ 
dence,  which  would  have  forbidden  an  idle  reliance  upon  it. 

I  will  not  pay  so  poor  a  compliment  to  the  love  intuitions  of 
my  readers  as  to  deem  it  needful  to  assure  them  that  the 
union  of  Pauline  and  Ernest,  so  plainly  in  obedience  to  the 
wise,  direct,  and  irresistible  instincts  of  the  heart,  had  thus 
far  proved  most  happy  and  harmonious. 

Deeply  could  Ernest  feel  the  meaning  of  those  lines 
which  he  loved  often  to  read  —  the  words  of  the  lover- 
husband  in  Tennyson’s  4  Miller’s  Daughter’  — 


185 


dora’s  children. 

‘  Look  through  mine  eyes  with  thine.  True  wife, 

Round  my  true  heart  thine  arms  entwine  ; 

My  other  dearer  life  in  life, 

Look  through  my  very  soul  with  thine  !  ’ 

And  like  that  lover  and  his  Alice,  Ernest  and  his  Pauline 
beheld  — 

‘  The  still  affection  of  the  heart 
Become  an  outward  breathing  type  ;  ’  — 

but  one  of  whom  it  might  not  be  said, 

‘  It  “  into  stillness  past  again, 

And  left  a  want  unknown  before.5’  ’ 

Their  babe,  their  boy,  their  4  little  Ernest,’  lived  to  unite  in 
one  rich  inheritance  the  mother  s  once  pioud  and  spaiklmg 
beauty,  now  softened  with  love  and  shaded  by  thought,  with 
the  pure  spirituality  which  reposed  depth  on  depth  in  his 
father’s  eyes,  and  the  nobility  which  crowned  his  forehead. 

Pauline  insisted  on  having  Louise  with  her  for  the  first 
few  months  in  her  new  home.  Luring  the  autumn,  it  hap- 
pened  that  the  sisters  first  became  well  acquainted  with  an 
aunt  of  their  mother’s,  Mrs.  Edwards,  of  New  York,  who 
was  spending  some  weeks  in  the  city  of  Elms,  on  a  visit  to 
a  young  son  who  had  lately  entered  \ale.  Mis.  Edwaids 
was  that  charming  anomaly,  a  wealthy,  handsome,  fashion¬ 
able  woman,  with  a  fresh,  kindly  and  generous  heart.  She 
was  a  fine  musical  amateur,  and  soon  appreciated  Ernest 
and  his  brilliant  wife  ;  but  somewhat  piqued  by  the  shyness 
of  Louise,  she  cultivated  her  at  first,  from  a  sort  of  cuiiosity, 
which  finally  deepened  into  a  sinceie  interest,  in  the  little 

muse,’  as  she  often  called  her. 

On  her  part,  Louise  soon  forgot  her  reserve,  ceased  to  be 
awed  by  the  somewhat  imposing  elegance  of  her  kinswoman, 
and  ended  by  loving  her  most  heartily.  So  complete  was 
this  captivation,  that  Mrs.  Edwards  had  little  difficulty  in 
persuading  her  young  friend  to  accompany  her  to  New  Yoik, 
there  to  spend  the  winter  in  her  family. 

16* 


186 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES.  „ 


On  the  day  succeeding  her  arrival,  Louise  wrote  thus  to 
her  sister  : 

‘  I  found  our  friends  living  in  a  large,  elegant  stone 

house,  in  -  Place,  very  far  up  town.  I  thought  we 

should  never  get  there  from  the  boat.  It  was  about  eight 
o’clock  when  we  arrived,  and  we  went  directly  to  the 
breakfast  parlor.  As  soon  as  we  entered,  Mrs.  Edwards 
was  surrounded  and  nearly  hugged  to  death  by  the  chil¬ 
dren,  the  four  youngest,  all  of  whom  are  pretty,  and  one 
of  whom  I  instantly  elected  as  my  especial  favorite  —  Kitty, 
the  loveliest  creature  alive.  Mingled  up  with  the  children, 
were  no  less  than  three  dogs  —  a  fine  Newfoundland  and  a 
brace  of  greyhounds,  one  of  which,  most  delicately  limbed 
and  pure  white,  reminded  me  of  Miss  Mitford’s  “  May¬ 
flower.”  These  came  thrusting  their  long,  slender  heads 
into  their  mistress’s  hands,  or  laying  them  against  her 
bosom,  as  sincerely,  if  not  as  noisily,  glad  as  their  human 
playmates. 

‘  I  think  Mr.  Edwards  must  be  a  good-natured,  humorous 
sort  of  a  man,  for  all  this  time  he  had  been  standing  quietly 
on  the  hearth-rug,  with  a  happy  smile  spread  over  his  hale 
and  handsome  face.  At  length  he  said  — 

‘“Well,  if  the  children  and  dogs  are  quite  through,  I 
think  I  may  take  my  turn  ”  —  and,  throwing  his  arms  about 
his  laughing  wife,  kissed  her  half  a  dozen  times.  “  Now, 
Nell,”  he  cried,  “  you  may  take  your  chance  —  come  quick, 
or  you  ’ll  lose  it !  ” 

‘  The  young  lady  thus  addressed,  Miss  Elinor  Starr 
Edwards,  aunt’s  only  grown  daughter,  a  tall,  slender 
brunette,  glided  gracefully  up  to  her  mother,  and  kissed  her 
cheek,  more  quietly  than  heartily,  I  thought.  Oh,  sister, 
that  is  not  the  way  we  should  have  kissed  our  mother,  had 
God  left  her  with  us.  I  greatly  fear  I  shall  never  love 
Miss  Elinor.  Introductions  to  strangers  are  always  formi¬ 
dable  affairs  to  me,  you  know,  but  I  got  through  with  those 
which  followed  quite  bravely,  I  fancy.  The  breakfast 


dora’s  children. 


187 


passed  off  pleasantly,  though  the  children  were  rather  up¬ 
roarious.  The  lunch,  too,  was  a  nice,  little,  social  gathering, 
to  which  we  came  with  keen  appetites  after  our  morning 
drive  ;  but  the  dinner  was  less  agreeable  to  me.  We  sat 
down  at  six,  and  did  not  rise  till  nearly  eight  none  of  the 
children  were  present,  except  Master  Harry,  who,  begging 
his  fond  mamma’s  pardon,  is  rather  pert  and  the  convei- 
sation  was  principally  about  persons  and  things  of  which  I 
knew  nothing.  After  tea,  which  we  took  about  nine,  a  few 
familiar  friends  of  the  family  dropped  in.  The  ladies  weie 
elegant  in  dress  and  manner,  but  slightly  insipid,  I  thought 
—  the  gentlemen  moustached,  imperialized,  and  otherwise 
u  dandical.”  Elinor  sung  and  played  with  immense  ap¬ 
plause.  She  is  a  fine  artistic  performer,  but  her  singing 

does  not  approach  our  Pauline’s. 

4  My  chamber  has  a  pleasant  lookout  into  the  Paik,  is 
handsomely  and  luxuriously  furnished,  but  is  quite  too  large 
and  lofty  for  my  simple  ideas  of  comfort.  And,  then,  the 
servants,  who  are  prowling  about  every  where,  have  a  way 
of  whisking  every  little  trifle  back  into  its  place,  setting 
things  to  rights,”  if  you  leave  your  room  for  a  moment, 
which  gives  you  the  not  over-pleasant  feeling  of  being 
watched.  But  I  suppose  I  shall  get  used  to  this  sort  of  life 

presently. 

<  There  goes  the  breakfast  bell !  Elinor  has  just  been  in 
to  bid  me  good  morning,  and  bring  me  a  bunch  of  freshly- 
blown  flowers  from  the  conservatory.  I  think  I  shall  love 
that  girl  a  little,  after  all  —  but  I  don’t  believe  she  will  ever 

care  for  me.’ 

A  few  weeks  later,  Louise  wrote  as  follows : 

4  You  remember,  dear  Pauline,  Mr.  Walter  Edwards, 
Heidelberg-bound,  who  spent  two  or  three  days  with  us  at 
the  time  of  Frederic’s  marriage.  Well,  he  has  returned 
home,  having  spent  the  years,  since  we  saw  him,  in 
Germany,  Switzerland,  Italy,  Greece,  Turkey,  Palestine, 
France,  England,  Scotland,  and  Ireland.  He  comes  last 


188 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


from  Paris.  But  I  must  tell  you  of  his  arrival.  He  had 
been  expected  for  some  time  ;  but  as  he  had  taken  a  fancy 
to  come  in  a  sailing  vessel,  no  one  knew,  at  this  season  of 
the  year,  on  what  day  to  look  for  him.  Yesterday  morning, 
as  the  weather  was  unpleasant,  and  I  felt  very  comfortable 
in  the  library,  I  respectfully  declined  accompanying  Mrs. 
Edward  on  her  calling  tour  —  Elinor  went  to  riding-school, 
and  I  was  left  quite  alone.  As  I  was  reading  Browning’s 
“  Blot  in  the  ’Scutcheon,”  a  glorious  dramatic  poem,  I  came 
upon  an  odd,  delicious  love  song,  beginning  — 

“There’s  a  woman  like  a  dew-drop  —  she’s  so  purer  than  the 
purest.” 

I  was  seized  with  a  desire  to  sing  this  in  my  own  odd 
way  —  so  ran  to  the  music-room,  opened  the  piano,  and  set 
to  work.  I  had  some  difficulty  at  first,  as  the  long  lines 
and  curiously  linked  words  were  rather  unmanageable,  but 
I  finally  made  an  accompaniment  which  at  least  satisfied 
myself.  As  I  was  pouring  out  the  wild,  passionate  words 
at  the  top,  or  rather  at  the  bottom,  of  my  voice,  for  I  was 
striving  to  give  the  deep,  fervent  tones  of  Mertoun,  as,  half¬ 
fearful  of  surprise,  he  swings  himself  from  the  yew  tree 
branches  into  the  casement  of  Mildred,  my  eye  was  caught 
by  a  reflection  in  a  mirror  opposite.  I  stopped  singing  on 
the  instant,  turned,  and  saw,  standing  between  me  and  the 
open  door,  a  tall,  dark,  very  dark,  young  man,  with  curly 
black  hair,  and  a  huge  moustache,  a  fur  cap  and  cloak,  and 
a  crimson  cashmere  waistcoat.  Oh,  dear,  I  shall  never 
know  how  long  the  fellow  had  been  watching  me  !  My 
first  impulse  was  to  fly.  I  sprang  up,  and  overturned  the 
music  stool  at  his  feet.  He  caught  it,  returned  it  to  its 
place,  then,  lifting  his  cap,  introduced  himself  as  Walter 
Edwards  —  as  though  there  was  any  need  of  that!  —  and 
called  me  by  my  name.  Strange  that  he  should  recollect 
me  !  I  was  stammering  out  an  explanation  of  my  being 
alone,  with  some  commonplaces  of  welcome,  when  the 


bora’s  children. 


189 


children  were  let  out  upon  him  from  the  nursery  —  and  in 
the  melee  I  happily  made  my  escape  to  my  chamber,  wherein 
I  remained  until  near  dinner-time. 

4  To-day  we  have  had  a  dinner-party,  composed  princi¬ 
pally  of  family  friends  and  some  fellow-passengers  of  Mi. 
Walter  Edwards  —  or  rather  Doctor,  as  he  brings  that  title 
with  him  from  Heidelberg.  It  was  quite  a  little  congress 
of  nations.  We  had  two  Germans,  one  a  baron  and  the 
other  a  real  live  count,  a  Frenchman,  an  Italian,  and  a 
Spaniard !  I  hope  that  our  good  cousin  really  liked  these 
various  gentlemen  —  did  not  choose  his  guests  in  oidei  to 
show  off  his  own  acquirements  as  a  linguist.  It  is  most 
true  that  he  spoke  fluently  with  each  in  his  vernacular,  and 
had  the  air  of  an  every-day  familiarity  with  every  known 
tongue.  How  I  wished  that  papa  were  present,  to  touch 
him  up  on  the  Chinese  !  I  think  that  would  have  posed 
him.  As  for t poor,  stupid  me,  I  could  hardly  muster  French 
enough  to  keep  up  a  little  necessary  conversation  with  the 
lively  Parisian  artist  at  my  side. 

4  In  truth,  Dr.  Walter  Edwards  is  a  very  fine  person  —  a 
grand  person,  I  should  even  say  —  one  who  has  done  full 
justice  to  his  native  talent  and  admirable  opportunities.  I 
admire  him,  certainly,  but  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  ever  come 
near  enough  to  him  to  like  him.  It  is  beautiful  to  see 
Elinor’s  worship  of  her  stately  brother  —  not  that  she  says 
or  does  much,  but  she  looks  unmixed  idolatry.  I  do  love 
that  girl !  I  have  found  that  she  is  not  cold  at  heart  only 
quiet  in  her  demonstrations. 

4 1  suppose  we  are  now  in  for  a  round  of  parties.  I 
never  can  learn  to  enjoy  them,  never  can  think  one,  with 
its  glare  and  crush,  its  dainties  and  polkas,  any  thing  but  a 
magnificent  bore.’ 

A  week  or  two  later,  Louise  wrote  : 

4  Lo,  a  marvel !  cousin  Walter  has  shaved  ofl  his  mous¬ 
tache  1 —  his  black,  silky  moustache,  and  all  to  please  his 
mother.  There  was  no  help  for  it.  Aunt  Edwards  actually 


190 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


limited  his  kisses  to  the  back  of  her  hand,  and  kept  him  on 
a  short  allowance  at  that.  Elinor  will  never  have  done 
grieving  for  the  loss  of  this  badge  European,  and  I  at  first 
thought  Walter  did  not  look  as  well  without  it;  but  1  now 
?>ee  that  it  concealed  one  of  the  greatest  beauties  of  his  face 
—  the  short,  delicately  cut  upper  lip,  with  its  peculiar  tremu¬ 
lous  play. 

‘The  opera  has  opened,  with  Teresa  Truffi,  a  young 
Milanese,  I  believe,  as  Prima  Donna,  Mr.  Edwards  has  a 
box,  and  last  night  we  all  went  to  see  Lucrezia  Borgia. 
On  another  sheet  I  send  you  my  musical  impressions.  I 
have  only  to  give  here  a  few  trifles' for  your  indulgent  eye 
alone. 

‘  When  I  was  dressing  for  this  op^ra,  I  was  sadly  out  of 
heart.  I  knew  that  it  was  a  place  where  people  were 
expected  to  look  brilliant,  and  you  know  brilliancy  is  not 
precisely  my  forte.  For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  I  felt 
dissatisfied  with  my  wardrobe  —  it  is  so  very  poor  com¬ 
pared  with  Elinor’s  —  and  my  little  jewelry-box  I  shut  in 
despair.  Finally,  I  fixed  on  my  dress  of  India  muslin,  with 
the  slight  embroidery  —  you  remember  it.  I  looped  up  the 
sleeves  with  natural  rose-buds,  wove  a  little  myrtle-wreath 
for  my  hair,  and  flung  over  my  shoulders  my  sliced  of  rose- 
colored  crape.  I  wore  but  one  ornament,  the  plain  gold 
cross,  containing  some  of  mother’s  beautiful  hair,  which, 
since  papa  gave  it  me,  on  my  last  birth-day,  I  have  been 
wearing  next  my  heart.  Now  suspended  on  my  neck  by  its 
delicate  chain,  it  really  looked  very  prettily. 

‘  Cousin  Elinor  was  escorted  by  a  certain  Mr.  Lincoln  — 
or  “  Tom  Lincoln,”  as  every  body  calls  him  —  for  whom  I 
suspect  she  has  a  partiality  ;  he  certainly  adores  her.  I  was 
attended  by  my  grave  cousin,  the  Doctor,  who  might  be 

Doctor  Faustus,  by  the  awe  with  which  he  still  inspires 
me. 

‘  In  the  box  next  us  sat  a  splendidly  handsome  woman, 
about  twenty-eight  or  thirty,  I  should  say,  superbly  dressed, 


bora’s  children. 


191 


and  all  ablaze  with  diamonds.  She  bowed  familiarly  to  my 
cousin,  and  favored  me  with  a  brief  scrutiny  through  her 
double-barrelled  opera-glass,  which  I  thought  rather  imperti¬ 
nent,  as  we  sat  too  near  to  make  it  allowable.  Walter  told 
me  that  this  was  Miss  Warrington,  a  great  heiress,  and  a 
leader  of  fashion  —  that  he  fell  in  with  her  brother  and 
herself  in  Italy,  crossed  the  Alps  and  finally  the  Atlantic, 
with  them  —  that  she  was  a  clever,  but  rather  a  handsome 
woman,  famous  for  her  coquetries  and  conquests.  He 
visited  her  box  between  the  acts,  and  I  could  but  observe 
that  his  coming  gave  her  lively  pleasure,  while  he  soon 
appeared  fascinated  by  her  gay  conversation  and  gracious 
manner.  I  hope  he  is  not  in  complete  thraldom  there.  I 
do  not  believe  that  Miss  Warrington  can  be  worthy  of  a 
heart  so  noble  as  his. 

4  This  morning,  while  we  were  in  the  music-room,  listen¬ 
ing  to  Elinor’s  fine  playing,  Walter,  for  the  first  time,  calling 
me  cousin  Louise,  asked  leave  to  remark  slightly  on  my 
appearance  of  last  evening.  I  know  not  how  I  could  have 
suspected  him  of  such  an  impertinence,  but  I  thought  he 
was  about  to  criticise  my  plain  toilette,  and,  drawing  myself 
up,  replied,  coldly,  44  If  it  so  please  you,  sir.”  44  Then,” 
he  exclaimed,  44  I  must  say  that,  in  my  eye,  your  dress  was 
by  far  the  most  tasteful  and  beautiful  in  the  house.  It  was 

soft,  simple,  classical,  poetical  —  it  was  ” - 44  Ah,  that 

will  do,”  I  cried,  interrupting  him  ;  44the  wearer  is  already 
infinitely  your  debtor  !  ” 

4  After  this,  I  suppose  I  was  in  a  particularly  obliging 
mood,  for  when,  on  Elinor’s  leaving  the  piano,  Walter 
spoke  to  me  for  the  first  time  of  the  recitation  he  had 
accidentally  heard  on  the  day  of  his  arrival,  and  plead  for 
something  in  the  same  style,  I  sat  down  at  once,  and  gave 
him  that  proud  44  Love-Song  of  Montrose,”  as  well  as  I 
knew  how.  He  professed  unbounded  delight,  both  by  word 
and  look.  How  1  wish  1  could  believe  him  !  But  it  seems 
too  much  to  believe,  knowing,  as  I  do,  that  he  has  just 


192 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


come  from  hearing  the  greatest  singers  and  actors  in  the 
world.’ 

I  will  quote  no  more  from  the  letters  of  Louise,  but  must 
tell  her  story  in  my  own  briefer  way.  Yet,  entre  nous,  dear 
reader,  you  do  not  lose  much,  for  those  letters  from  New 
York  by  no  means  grew  in  piquancy  and  interest.  Pauline 
complained,  indeed,  that  they  were  shorter  and  came  less 
frequently  than  at  first,  and  observed  that  the  name  of 
Walter  Edwards  now  seldom  appeared  in  those  ‘  few-and- 
far-between  ’  home  dispatches.  That  some  unfortunate  cold¬ 
ness  had  arisen,  to  the  detriment  of  proper  cousinly  regard, 
Pauline  may  have  thought  at  New  Haven,  but  appearances 
at  New  York  were  decidedly  against  such  a  supposition.  In 
truth,  most  pleasant  and  familiar  relations  had  gradually 
grown  up  between  the  two  —  an  intimacy  all  the  closer,  it 
seemed,  for  the  native  reserve  and  sensitiveness  of  both. 
During  the  winter  mornings,  they  read  and  sang  ;  and  when 
the  sunny  days  came,  rode  and  walked  together,  always  in 
the  full  companionship  of  bright  thoughts,  the  unison  of  a 
common  and  ever-increasing  happiness.  Ere  she  was 
aware,  Louise  had  passed  into  a  new  and  larger  life ;  she 
breathed  a  diviner  yet  clearer  atmosphere  ;  the  deepest 
mysteries  of  her  nature  took  simplest  revelations  ;  the  mist- 
like  reveries,  the  quick-vanishing  dreams  of  her  early  girl¬ 
hood,  took  fair  familiar  shapes,  and  led  her  daily  walk  ;  and 
when  the  soring  came  there  was  in  her  heart  a  spring-time 
of  softer  sunshine,  and  deeper  bloom,  and  more  entrancing 
song. 

O  • 

It  may  also  be  true  that  — 

‘  In  the  spring  a  young  man’s  fancy  lightly  turns  to  thoughts  of 
love.’ 

Certain  it  is,  that,  like  the  hero  of  ‘  Locksley  Hall,’  Mr. 
Walter  Edwards  felt  ‘  all  the  current  of  his  being’  setting 
towards  his  cousin.  Thus  it  happened  that,  as  one  evening 
after  Louise  had  been  singing  his  favorite,  4  The  Love- 
Song  of  Montrose  ’  — 


193 


dora’s  children. 

£  Do  you  subscribe  to  tbe  rash  philosophy  of  these  lines  ?  ’ 
he  asked,  reading  the  verse  : 

“  ‘  He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  desert  is  small, 

Who  dare  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

And  gain,  or  lose  it  all.”  ’ 

‘  Most  assuredly,  Cousin  Walter.  I  do  not  call  it  44  rash , 
but  brave  and  true.’ 

4  Then  you  must  not  chide  me,  if  I  as  boldly  as  rever¬ 
ently  utter  fateful  words  which  may  never  be  recalled,  and 
say  —  and  say —  that  I  love  you,  dear  Louise,  I  love  you, 

and  ’ - 

What  might  have  been  the  conclusion  of  this  sentence  is 
a  matter  for  the  vaguest  conjecture  ;  for,  at  that  instant, 
good,  unsuspecting  Mr.  Edwards  came  up  and  interrupted 
the  colloquy  of  the  cousins  with  some  pleasant  little  hon-mot 
—  so  all  was  over,  for  that  night  at  least. 

In  the  morning,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwards  went  out  of  town 
for  a  few  days ;  Louise  did  not  care  to  shut  heiself  up  in 
her  chamber }  Elinor  was  taking  a  lesson  in  the  music- 
room  5  Walter  was  probably  in  the  libiaiy,  and  of  couise 
she  could  not  go  there ;  the  parlors  were  too  gorgeously 
desolate,  so  she  strolled  into  the  conservatory.  Guided  by 
some  marvellous  intuition,  or  it  may  possibly  have  been  by 
tbe  direction  of  the  servants,  Walter  found  her  out  and 
joined  her.  She  was  bending  over  a  pot  of  dark-purple 
pansies,  inhaling  their  fragrance,  as  he  entered,  and,  look¬ 
ing  up,  she-  said  quietly  — 

4  This  simple  flower  is  my  favorite,  of  all  the  flowers  that 
live.  My  mother  so  loved  pansies  —  she  had  them  near 
her  to  the  last,  and  we  have  quite  covered  her  grave  with 
them.’ 

Walter  had  bent  to  pluck  a  bunch,  and,  as  he  held  them 
towards  her,  said  — 

4  Then,  Louise,  can  any  thing  add  to  their  dearness  ? 

17 


194 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


‘  I  do  not  know,’  she  replied,  blushing,  ‘but  I  think  not.5 

‘  Are  you  sure  that  nothing  can  take  from  their  sacred¬ 
ness  ?  ’ 

‘  Yes,  quite  sure,’  she  answered  with  a  smile. 

Then,  after  pressing  them  to  his  lips,  he  said,  in  a  deep, 
low  tone,  ‘  I  have  kissed  them  with  my  love  upon  my  lips  — 
?icnv  will  you  take  them  ?  ’ 

Those  large  blue  eyes  were  cast  down  ;  the  sweet  face  of 
Louise  rapidly  paled  and  flushed  ;  Walter  could  scarcely 
hear,  as  he  bent  over  her,  the  murmured  ‘  Yes  5  —  but  she 
took  the  flowers  —  then,  ere  another  word  could  be  spoken, 
she  turned,  flew  through  the  hall  and  up  the  stairs,  like  a 
poor,  frightened  bird. 

A  little  vexed,  and  a  great  deal  pleased,  Walter  sauntered 
into  the  library,  took  up  a  book  and  retired  to  a  favorite 
seat,  behind  the  heavy  velvet  curtains,  in  the  deep  embrasure 
of  a  southern  window.  He  had  not  been  long  there  en¬ 
sconced,  when  two  lively,  chatty  young  ladies,  nieces  of  his 
father’s,  were  shown  into  the  library  —  just  the  last  persons 
whom  he  cared  to  meet  on  that  particular  morning  —  so  he 
resolved  to  remain  perdu. 

‘  Cousin  Louise,’  as  they  affectionately  called  her,  soon 
joined  them,  bringing  Elinor’s  excuses.  Louise  was  a  poor 
gossip  that  morning.  Walter  could  but  pity  her  abstraction, 
and  was  happy  that  it  seemed  to  escape  the  notice  of  her 
visitors.  He  fixed  his  thoughts,  as  intently  as  he  found  it 
possible,  on  the  book  before  him,  and  took  no  heed  of  the 
conversation  to  which  he  was  an  unintentional  listener,  until 
his  own  name  struck  his  ear. 

‘  I  assure  you,  Miss  Preston,’  said  Miss  Sallie  Wilson, 
‘  that  Cousin  Walter  and  Miss  Warrington  are  engaged.  •  I 
have  it  from  the  best  authority  that  she  nursed  him  when  he 
sprained  his  ankle  on  the  Apennines,  and  that  he  in  return 
saved  her  life  on  the  Alps.  On  crossing  the  Atlantic,  they 
came  near  being  wrecked ;  and  when  they  expected  to  go 
down  every  minute,  they  were  betrothed  —  at  least,  they 
vowed  they  would  die  in  each  other’s  arms.’ 


Dora’s  children. 


195 


‘It  is  all  quite  true —  I  am  absolutely  certain,’  said  Miss 
Marie  ;  ‘  and  I  know  that  Miss  Warrington’s  and  our  man- 
tuamaker,  Madame  Beauseau,  expects  the  order  for  the 
wedding  dresses  every  day.’ 

Smothering  his  laughter  as  best  he  could,  at  the  recital  of 
this  comical  romance,  so  utterly  new  to  him,  Walter  impa¬ 
tiently  sat  out  the  remainder  of  the  call,  which,  happily  foi 
Louise,  was  not  long.  That  poor  silly  girl,  after  seeing  her 
visitors  off,  hastened  to  her  chamber,  locked  the  door,  and 
began  rapidly  walking  the.  room,  murmuring  bitterly  — 

4  Fool,  fool  that  I  have  been,  to  believe  for  a  moment  that 
he  truly  and  seriously  loved  me  ;  —  me,  a  little,  plain,  igno¬ 
rant,  bashful,  Yankee  girl  !  He  was  only  playing  with  my 
affections,  pour  passer  le  temps,  as  he  would  say,  in  his  mis¬ 
erable,  heartless  French.  I  will  go  home  to  father  and 
Frederic,  or  to  Pauline  and  Ernest  —  they  only  can  love 

me _ they  have  somehow  grown  into  the  habit  of  loving 

me.  Oh,  I  never  should  have  left  home  !  1  have  no  other 

place  in  the  wide  world.’ 

A  knock  at  the  door  ! 

4  Mr.  Walter  sends  his  compliments,  and  would  Miss  Pres¬ 
ton  be  pleased  to  walk  in  the  Park  this  fine  morning  ? 

4  No.  Tell  him  I  must  beg  to  be  excused.’ 

Louise  had  received  a  letter  from  her  sister  by  that  morn¬ 
ing’s  mail,  at  the  close  of  which  Pauline  wiote 

<•  When  I  put  little  Ernest  to  bed  this  evening,  as  I  kissed 
him  good  night  for  you,  he  asked  so  touchingly,  When 
Lula  come  home,  mamma  ?  Ernie  not  see  her  for  such  a 

many  days  !  ” 

4 1  have  just  come  from  looking  at  him  in  his  sleep.  He 
seems  a  little  restless,  and  his  cheek  is  rather  too  hot.  I  am 
apprehensive  of  the  scarlet  fever,  which  has  appeared  in  the 
neighborhood.  But  don’t  be  troubled  —  he  is  not  really 

ill.’ 

Louise  read  this,  at  first,  with  scarce  one  thrill  of  fear. 
She  idolized  the  child,  but  felt  that  he  could  not  die.  She 


196 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


was  all  too  happy  for  a  thought  of  death.  But  now  she  re¬ 
solved  to  go  to  him  at  once ;  and  when  she  joined  her 
cousins  at  lunch,  she  announced  her  determination  of  re¬ 
turning  to  New  Haven  by  the  evening  boat,  stating  that  she 
was  called  home  by  the  illness  of  Pauline’s  child. 

Ah,  Louise  !  Louise  !  • 

4  If  you  really  must  go,  cousin,  brother  Walter  will  of 
course  accompany  you,’  said  Elinor. 

4  It  is  quite  needless,’  replied  Louise,  somewhat  coldly ; 

4  indeed,  I  would  rather  he  should  not  take  the  trouble.  I 
am  certainly  enough  of  a  traveller  to  journey  so  short  a  dis¬ 
tance  alone.’ 

4  At  least,  you  will  allow  me  to  see  you  to  the  boat  ?  ’  said 
Walter,  wounded  to  the  soul,  surprised  and  offended  by  the 
distrust  and  jealousy  which  he  read  only  too  well.  Louise 
somewhat  more  graciously  thanked  him,  gave  assent,  and 
returned  to  her  chamber  to  pack  her  trunks.  Elinor  and 
Walter  both  accompanied  her  to  the  boat.  From  the  first 
she  parted  with  some  tears ;  but  Pauline  herself,  in  her 
proudest  days,  could  not  have  worn  an  air  of  more  supreme 
indifference  than  she  assumed  in  taking  leave  of  Walter. 
She  shook  hands  carelessly  with  him  at  the  cabin  door,  and 
did  not  even  cast  a  look  after  him,  as  he  led  his  sister  to  the 
carriage. 

It  was  not  till  the  night  had  closed  in,  and  the  boat  was 
well  under  way,  that  Louise  stole  out  on  deck.  There, 
standing  apart,  leaning  against  the  railing,  she  looked  into 
the  dark  water,  and  shed  fast  bitter  tears.  She  thought  of 
all  the  winter  past,  the  happiest,  dearest  time  of  her  life  ; 
she  thought  of  Walter,  of  the  evening  before,  and  his  words 
of  love  ;  of  the  morning  and  his  pansies,  so  burdened  with 
kisses  —  and  how  she  too  had  kissed  them,  and  hid  them  in 
her  bosom.  Shame  and  anger  burned  in  her  cheek  at  this 
remembrance.  She  caught  them  out,  and  would  have  flung 
them  into  the  sea,  but  that  she  felt  something  harder  than 
their  slight  stems  in  her  grasp.  It  was  her  mother’s  cross, 


dora’s  children. 


197 


which  had  become  unfastened  from  its  chain.  With  a  shud¬ 
der  at  having  so  nearly  lost  this  sacred  treasure,  she  le- 
placed  it  in  her  bosom,  and  with  it  the  pansies.  c  Might  it 
not  be  an  omen  of  good  ? 1  sbe  asked  her  heart. 

Seeing  that  the  night  had  grown  darker,  and  feeling  a 
few  large  rain-drops  on  her  forehead,  Louise  returned  to 
the  cabin,  flung  herself  on  her  berth,  and  finally  slept.  She 
was  awakened  by  the  cabin-maid,  who  informed  her  that 
they  had  reached  New  Haven.  In  her  thoughtless  haste, 
she  had  never  anticipated  landing  in  the  dark  and  the  rain, 
and  now  felt  utterly  dismayed.  It  wanted  yet  some  hours 
of  morning,  and  she  had  a  long  ride  into  the  country  before 
her.  Hastily  tying  on  her  bonnet,  and  wrapping  her  cloak 
about  her,  she  passed  along  with  the  other  passengers  to  the 
gangway.  Here  she  found  a  crowd  of  men  and  boys,  from 
whom  she  shrank  in  childish,  speechless  timidity.  While 
looking  around  in  tearful  entreaty  for  an  officer  of  the  boat, 
or  some  kind  stranger  who  would  befriend  her  for  a  few 
moments  by  calling  a  carriage  and  attending  to  her  baggage, 
she  suddenly  felt  her  arm  drawn  within  that  of  a  gentleman 
at  her  side.  With  a  scream  on  her  lips,  she  turned  and 
looked  into  the  smiling  face  of  Walter  Edwards!  He  led, 
or  rather  bore  her  to  a  carriage  near  by,  whereon  her  trunks 
were  already  deposited,  handed  her  in  out  of  the  storm 
out  of  all  storms,  for  he  sat  down  beside  her,  and  held  her 

hand  in  his. 

Now,  my  dear  reader,  I  know  not  what  yo.ur  wishes  may 
be,  but  I  should  not  feel  justified  in  following  Louise  and 
Walter  into  that  carriage,  and  reporting  every  thing  they 
said  on  their  way  to  the  pretty  country  home  of  Ernest  and 
Pauline.  Louise,  however,  has  been  known  to  affirm  that 
she  said  little,  except  to  ask  Walter’s  forgiveness  for  her 
jealous  distrust,  and  that  he  said  little  after  asking  paidon 
for  having  allowed  her  to  teach  herself  so  severe  a  lesson. 
Yet  I  do  not  think  that  they  dozed  through  the  long  ride,  nor 
do  I  believe  that  their  conversation  was  altogether  dry  and 


198 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


uninteresting;  for  when  they  reached  1  Sweetbriar  cottage,’ 
at  early  breakfast  time,  Walter’s  fine  face  looked  remark¬ 
ably  fresh  and  bright,  and  Louise,  though  she  was  all  blushes 
and  glad  smiles,  bore  the  traces  of  recent  tears  on  her  fair 
cheeks,  and  long,  golden  eyelashes.  Feeling  that  Pauline, 
after  the  first  surprise  of  their  arrival,  was  looking  at  her 
rather  too  searchingly,  she  caught  up  little  Ernest,  (who,  by 
the  by,  has  not  had  the  scarlet  fever  to  this  day,)  and  com¬ 
menced  an  animated  conversation  with  him.  Ah,  that  was 
a  bad  move,  Louise  !  for  the  child,  tenderly  wiping  her  eyes 
with  his  pinafore,  cried  out,  pitifully  — 

4  See,  mamma,  see  !  poor  Lulu  cry  !’ 

In  about  a  fortnight  —  I  am  not  sure,  though,  that  it  was 
more  than  ten  days  from  this  morning  —  Louise  was  sitting 
on  the  simplest  and  prettiest  of  sofas  in  Pauline’s  little  par¬ 
lor,  and  (I  have  good  authority  for  the  assertion)  with  her 
head  drooped  on  Walter’s  shoulder,  or  rather  on  his  breast, 
while  he  was  softly  laying  back  the  rich  masses  of  shining 
hair  from  her  forehead,  and  talking  to  her  in  low  tones  — 
for  the  poor  child  had  a  headache  !  Pauline,  who  was  pres¬ 
ent,  seemed  busy  with  some  papers  at  her  writing-desk. 

‘  May  I  ask  what  you  are  smiling  over  so  archly,  Cousin 
Pauline  ?  ’  said  Walter. 

4  Oh,  nothing  but  a  little  passage  in  one  of  Louise’s  old 
letters.’ 

4  Ah,  read  it,  pray,’  he  exclaimed. 

And  Pauline  read  — 

4  In  truth,  Dr.  Walter  Edwards  is  a  very  fine  person  — 
a  grand  person,  I  should  even  say  —  one  who  has  done  full 
justice  to  his  native  talent  and  admirable  opportunities.  I 
admire  him,  certainly,  but  I  doubt  whether  I  shall  ever  come 
near  enough  to  him  to  like  him.' 

Louise  was  married  at  the  home  of  her  father  and  brother, 
one  golden  evening  early  in  September.  Then  met  to¬ 
gether  a  most  delightful,  though  a  strictly  family  party. 


199 


dora’s  children. 

There  was  Captain  Preston,  somewhat  paler  and  thinner 
than  of  old,  and  with  a  shade  of  sadness  on  his  yet  hand¬ 
some  face,  but,  nevertheless,  looking  the  proud  and  happy 
father.  There  were  the  grandparents  —  Frederic  and  his 
noble  wife,  with  the  Ellsworths —  Ernest  and  Pauline  —  the* 
children  —  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edwards  —  Elinor  and  Tom  Lin¬ 
coln,  (now  betrothed)  —  and  George,  the  young  collegian. 

The  wedding  was  over.  It  was  midnight,  and  Captain 
Preston  was  alone  in  his  room  —  Dora’s  room, that  ‘pleasant 
chamber  which  looked  out  on  the  sea.’  He  stood  in  the 
soft  moonlight,  before  the  window,  where,  long  years  ago, 
he  had  seen  her  stand,  waving  her  last  farewell;  and  now, 
with  flowing  tears  and  great  yearnings  of  the  heart  for  the 
early  lost,  but  ever  loved  one,  he  murmured  — 

‘  Have  I  been  faithful  to  your  charge,  my  Dora  ?  Do  you 
look  with  me  on  the  happiness  of  our  children  ?  ’ 

And  there,  in  the  stillness  and  loneliness  of  the  night,  an 
assurance  came  to  him,  voiceless,  mysterious,  but  sweet  and 
blessed,  beyond  what  words  may  tell,  and  he  knew  that  Dora 
was  with  him  —  within  the  circle  of  his  arms  —  leaning  her 
head  against  his  heart,  and  smiling  into  his  eyes,  as  in  the 
dear  old  time. 

Louise  has  become  reconciled  to  the  elegance  and  luxury 
which  once  almost  dismayed  her  —  adapted  herself  with 
true  womanly  tact  to  many  of  the  forms  and  fashions  once 
so  wearisome  and  distasteful  to  her,  and  all  without  the  loss 
of  the  early  freshness,  truth,  and  simplicity  of  her  character. 
She  still  speaks  with  a  sort  of  playful  awe  of  her  ‘  splendid 
husband,’  and  can  never  cease  to  wonder  what  he  found  in 
her  to  admire  and  love.  But  to  others,  there  is  little  mys¬ 
tery  in  the  matter. 

The  brothers  and  sisters  spend  a  few  happy  weeks  to¬ 
gether  every  year,  at  the  old  seaside  home,  which  has 
received  so  many  picturesque  additions,  has  been  so  be- 


200 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


winged  and  be-trellised,  that  it  looks  like  a  small  congrega¬ 
tion  of  summer-houses. 

Oh,  mothers,  do  you  truly  believe  that  Dora  was  dead 
through  all  these  years  ? 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ACTORS  AND 

PLAYS. 


During  my  present  visit  to  Philadelphia  I  have  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  the  distinguished  American  actor,  Mr. 
Murdoch,  in  some  of  his  finest  personations,  and  have  been 
impelled  to  remark  upon  them  simply  and  very  briefly.  I 
shall  not  attempt  an  analysis  of  Mr.  Murdoch’s  acting,  but 
merely  give  my  impressions  —  not  search  after  the  secrets 
of  his  dramatic  power,  but  tell  the  results  as  I  observed  and 
felt  them.  And  yet  effect  can  scarcely  be  earnestly  studied 
without  our  reverting  to  cause  ;  and  we  can  hardly  watch 
the  bright  flow  of  so  full  a  tide  of  genius  and  power  without 
wishing  to  trace  it  back  to  its  deep  source  in  the  life  and  in 
the  soul. 

In  speaking  of  our  subject,  first  of  all  to  be  noticed,  be¬ 
cause  it  is  above  all,  and  apparent  through  every  thing,  is  the 
high  moral  tone  of  the  man.  A  quick  sense  of  honor  and 
delicacy  —  a  sovereign  contempt  for  all  that  is  unworthy, 
false,  and  vile  —  a  hearty  geniality,  a  genuine  warmth  of 
feeling,  are  qualities  which  art  cannot  give,  though  her  fair 
semblances  too  often  pass  current  with  the  mass.  It  is  in 
these  qualities  of  a  large  heart  and  a  true  nature  that  the  best 
power  of  Mr.  Murdoch  lies.  He  would  make  these  felt  on 
the  world  in  any  position  and  capacity,  but  from  where  he 
now  exercises  them,  I  venture  to  say,  their  results  are 
greater  and  more  immediate,  and  perhaps  more  lasting,  than 
they  could  be  elsewhere.  This  is  because  the  stage  is  in 


202 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


greatest  need  of  characters  and  qualities  of  this  kind.  Men 
are  but  feebly  impressed  by  the  stem  virtue  of  Virginius, 
the  lofty  tenderness  and  severe  justice  of  Othello.,  or  the  sub¬ 
lime  patriotism  of  Brutus  or  Tell,  if  he  who  represents  them 
be  a  profligate  or  a  bully. 

The  cold  brilliance  of  the  mere  artist  does  not  move  the 
hearts  of  the  people — tremendous  exhibitions  of  power 
by  the  mere  actor  only  stun  their  sensibility  and  arouse 
their  passions.  Something  better  than  these  is  required  of 
dramatic  representation  in  our  time  —  nature  behind  art  — 
truth  tempering  passion  —  a  higher  moral  tone,  a  more 
decided  moral  force  in  the  actor  himself.  When  the  time 
comes  that  places  the  actor  by  the  side  of  the  author  and 
the  artist,  as  the  instructor  of  the  people,  and  a  ministrant  to 
their  higher  intellectual  pleasure  ;  when  the  world  requires  of 
him  the  same  elevation  of  character  and  worthiness  of  life, 
the  stage  will  be  but  taking  its  rightful  place  and  fulfilling 
its  true  destiny.  To  hasten  this  day,  yet,  alas  !  far  in  the 
future  —  the  day  which  shall  see  the  drama  redeemed  from 
the  evil  and  reproach  under  which  it  has  so  long  struggled, 
no  one  has  done  or  is  doing  more  than  Mr.  Murdoch  ;  and 
the  consciousness  that  while  being  true  to  himself,  he  is 
elevating  and  justifying  his  calling,  must  be  to  him  his  best 
recompense.  Were  there  more  of  the  same  stamp  in  the 
histrionic  profession,  they  would  soon  compel  the  world  to 
recognise  the  drama  not  only  as  a  high  department  of  ait, 
but  as  a  medium  for  moral  teaching,  an  influence  and  an 
element  to  be  felt  more  and  more  powerfully  in  the  social 
state. 

That  which  seems  to  me  most  to  distinguish  the  acting  of 
Mr.  Murdoch  in  comedy,  is  elegance  —  a  refined  joyousness, 
which  never  degenerates  into  farce,  is  never  coarse,  or  low, 
or  boisterous  —  in  short,  is  never  toned  down  to  the  pit.  In 
tragedy  and  melo-drama,  he  is  rather  subdued,  and  im¬ 
presses  more  by  deep  feeling  than  stormy  passion.  So  far 
is  he  from  exaggeration,  that  you  often  feel  that  there  is 


A  PEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ACTORS  AND  PLAYS. 


203 


more  kept  back  than  expressed  —  and  who  does  not  know 
that  there  is  terrible  power  in  repressed  passion.  This  is 
apparent  in  his  personation  of  Claude  Melnotte,  but  far  more 
so  in  the  4  Stranger.’  To  me  it  seems  that  Mr.  Murdoch  is 
unsurpassable  in  those  alternations  of  misanthropy  and 
tenderness,  of  sternness  and  heart-reaching  pathos,  which 
abound  in  this  melancholy  German  creation.  In  the  first 
abrupt  dialogue  with  Francis,  the  tones  of  his  voice  are 
freighted  with  agony,  and  come  to  us  as  terrible  intimations 
of  the  fearful  secret  of  the  play.  But  in  the  interview  with 
the  baron,  and  in  the  last  scene  with  Mrs.  Haller,  his  voice, 
his  look,  his  action,  are  overwhelming  in  their  effect.  Never 
shall  I  forget  his  telling  the  story  of  his  wrongs  —  now  hes¬ 
itating,  faint  with  emotion,  now  hurrying  to  be  through 
with  the  shameful  recital,  to  that  last  outburst  of  passionate 
anguish  — 

£  Kings,  laws,  tyranny,  or  guilt,  can  but  imprison  me,  or 
kill  me.  But  —  oh  God  !  oh  God  !  what  are  chains  or 
death,  compared  with  the  torture  of  a  deceived  yet  doting 
husband ! ’ 

Nor  his  first  words  to  Mrs.  Haller  — 

‘  What  would  you  with  me,  Adelaide  ?  ’ 

Nor  his  reply  when  his  penitent  wife  conjures  him  to  ‘use 
reproaches.’ 

4  Reproaches  !  Here  they  are  ;  here,  on  my  sallow  cheek 

_ here,  in  my  hollow  eye  —  here,  in  my  faded  form. 

These  reproaches  I  could  not  spare  you.’ 

In  such  passages  as  these  Mr.  Murdoch’s  deep,  rich  voice 
has  a  peculiar  passionate  unsteadiness  —  a  sort  of  quivering 

_ not  precisely  a  trembling,  but  an  undulating  of  tone,  as 

though  it  were  uncontrollably  agitated  by  the  tumultuous 
beating  of  his  heart.  In  all  scenes  of  domestic  tenderness 
and  pathos,  he  has  peculiar  power  —  the  power  which  no 
actor  can  acquire  without  the  experience  of  the  nearest,  the 
most  beautiful  home  relations  and  affections  —  without  full 
knowledge  of  the  deep  joys  and  great  sorrows  of  love. 


204 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


The  philosophy  of  this  play  of  The  Stranger,  as  it  is  now 
represented,  is  not  of  the  highest  order.  Kotzebue  knew 
best,  after  all,  and  his  denouement  was  truest  to  the  charac¬ 
ter  of  his  noble  creation.  In  the  play  as  written,  he  is  at  last 
reconciled  to  his  repentant  and  heart-broken  wife,  who  has 
fallen,  through  great  temptation  and  vile  deception,  in  the 
frenzy  and  despair  of  jealousy  —  and  takes  her  to  his  forgiv¬ 
ing  arms.  As  it  is  now  represented,  he  pardons  her,  indeed, 
but  parts  from  her  —  leaving  her  unprotected,  and  a  second 
time  disgraced  by  discovery  —  childless,  alone,  to  die  in  the 
shadow  of  her  shame  —  in  the  sharp  and  ceaseless  agonies  of 
her  remorse.  Such  is  the  terrible  retribution  which  society 
often  visits  upon  the  erring  woman,  but  the  juster,  the  di¬ 
viner  judgment  of  the  poet  was  not  thus  relentless.  Not  an 
empty  pardon,  and  after  that  desertion,  from  a  fear  of  the 
scorn  and  laughter  of  the  world,  but  full  forgiveness  and  kind 
protection  was  in  accordance  with  the  real  character  of  the 
Stranger,  whose  misanthropic  sternness,  doubt  and  suspicion 
were  the  effect  of  his  belief  in  the  total,  inexcusable  false¬ 
hood  and  depravity  of  his  once  adored  wife.  He  is  not  him¬ 
self,  he  is  frenzied  with  passion  when  he  gives  utterance  to 
that  execrable  sentiment  — 

£  Sir,  a  wife  once  induced  to  forget  her  honor,  must  be 
capable  of  a  second  crime  !  ’ 

Such  was  not  the  decision  of  Jesus.  True  it  is  that  when 
woman  first  left  the  garden  of  innocence,  an  angel  stood  at 
the  gate,  with  a  sword  of  flame,  guarding  against  her  return 
to  tread  again  the  old  happy  and  sinless  parts  —  but  he  did 
not  forbid  her  making,  amid  the  wilds  without,  a  home  of 
peace,  where  she  might  bow  her  repentant  head  before  God, 
and  remember  Eden — where  she  might  hope  in  mercy,  not 
despair  with  an  imbittered  spirit  and  a  daily  lacerated  heart. 
But  now,  a  remorseless  power,  called  Public  Opinion,  too 
often  a  fiend  in  disguise,  has  stolen  the  sword  of  the  angel 
and  chases  her  through  the  world. 

But  to  return.  Mr.  Murdoch’s  Benedict  is  a  delicious 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ACTORS  AND  PLAYS.  205 


piece  of  acting.  This  brilliant  and  spirited  character  seems 
especially  suited  to  him.  The  odd  fancies  and  witty  retorts 
of  the  gay  courtier  have  from  his  lips  a  fresh  point  and  raci¬ 
ness,  and  sparkle  with  a  new  life.  It  is  very  much  to  hear 
his  laugh  in  this  part  —  so  rich  and  musical  and  carelessly 
joyous  it  is.  Here,  as  in  Claude  Melnotte  and  Romeo,  char¬ 
acters  for  which  manly  beauty  seems  quite  indispensable, 
the  fine  person  of  Mr.  Murdoch  gives  him  great  advantages. 
In  such  characters  as  Puff,  Young  Mirabel,  Young  Rapid, 
and  the  Rover,  he  is  an  actor  to  have  charmed  Charles 
Lamb.  Ah  !  how  the  mirth-loving  Elia  and  his  gentle  sis¬ 
ter,  Bridget,  would  have  sat  night  after  night,  laughing  till 
the  tears  ran,  at  these  admirable  personations. 

Mr.  Murdoch’s  humor  is  the  very  soul  of  frolic  and  merri¬ 
ment.  There  is  about  it  a  hearty  and  boyish  abandon  most 
delightful  and  contagious.  But  in  the  sharper  and  bitterer 
wit  of  tragedy  and  melo-drama  —  in  irony  and  gay  scorn, 
all  the  playful  handling  of  the  keen  weapons  of  satire,  he  is 
inimitable.  This  is  well  shown  in  the  garden  scene  of  ‘  The 
Lady  of  Lyons,’  and  contrasts  finely  with  the  tenderness 
which  he  throws  into  his  looks  and  tones  when  painting  to 
Pauline  the  home  to  which  ‘  could  love  fulfill  its  prayers,’ 
he  would  lead  her.  This  description  he  makes  wondrously 
beautiful  by  his  splendid  elocution.  Not  alone  does  Pauline 
4  hang  upon  the  honey  of  his  eloquent  tongue,’  as  he  paints 
on  the  void  air  with  his  gorgeous  words  the  Paradise  of 
Love,  till  its  rich  foliage,  and  soft  blooms  and  bright  waters 
are  almost  palpably  before  us  ;  and  not  till  he  pauses  does  it 
fade  away,  like  a  vision  of  fair  enchantment. 

Such  passages  as  this  Mr.  Murdoch  always  gives  with 
great  and  peculiar  effect ;  and  this  not  alone  from  hia  just 
emphasis  and  musical  intonation,  but  because  he  has  fully 
received,  has  absorbed  the  very  spirit  of  the  author.  He  has 
a  ready  and  clear  perception  of  the  subtle  delicacies,  the 
fine  poetical  meanings  of  the  words  he  is  uttering.  He  gives 
us  a  quaint  conceit,  or  a  pleasant  fancy  with  a  happy  appre- 
18 


206 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


ciation  and  with  an  air  of  perfect  spontaneity.  In  all  the 
sweet  fancies  and  exquisite  imagery  of  tenderness,  I  have 
never  seen  him  equalled. 

When,  as  Claude  Melnotte,  he  is  conducting  Pauline  to 
his  cottage,  he  says  : 

1  Come,  dearest,  come. 

Pauline.  Shall  I  not  call  our  people 

To  light  us  ? 

Melnotle.  Heaven  will  lend  its  stars  for  torches. 

It  is  not  far. 

Pauline.  The  night  breeze  chills  me. 

Melnutte.  Nay, 

Let  me  thus  mantle  thee ;  —  it  is  not  cold.' 

It  were  quite  impossible  to  forget  the  mournful  tenderness 
of  his  manner,  and  the  passionate  sweetness  of  his  tone,  in 
uttering  these  last  words,  while  enfolding  his  proud  love, 
half-timidly,  with  his  sheltering  arms. 

Mr.  Murdoch,  with  the  grace  of  his  action  and  the 
thorough  gentlemanliness  of  his  bearing,  makes  of  Claude 
Melnotte  all  that  may  be  made  —  but  the  character  is  not 
great  enough  for  him.  It  is  merely  a  romantic,  not  a  deep 
or  dignified  creation,  and  the  central  idea,  the  philosophy  of 
the  play,  is  not  ennobling.  There  is  in  it,  as  in  all  the  pro¬ 
ductions  of  Bulwer,  too  much  recognition  of  money  as  the 
dominant,  controlling  power  of  social  life  —  of  the  genius  of 
gold,  as  mightier  than  love,  to  1  help  the  hurt  that  honor 
feels,’  and  rule  the  destinies  of  the  heart.  Claude  Melnotte 
leaves  Lvons  covered  with  disgrace  and  bowed  down  with 
shame,  though  forgiven  by  the  woman  he  had  wronged.  He 
returns  after  having  made  atonement  for  breaking  the  heart 
of  a  poor  foolish,  trusting  girl,  by  making  widows  of  some 
scores  of  Italian  women  —  for  the  greater  crime  of  his  low 
birth  by  the  winning  of  a  military  title  —  for  the  yet  greater 
crime  of  poverty  by  the  rich  spoil  of  plundering  campaigns. 
The  radical  fault  of  the  play  is  making  Melnotte  guilty, 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ACTORS  AND  PLAYS.  207 


whatever  his  provocation,  of  so  meanly  and  cruelly  de¬ 
ceiving  the  woman  of  his  love.  The  blackness  of  that 
dishonor  the  name  of  hero  could  not  gild,  nor  all  the  blood 
in  his  veins  wash  out.  This  play  is  a  sham,  with  all  its 
fine  passages  and  effective  scenes.  There  are,  indeed,  some 
very  taking  democratic  sentiments  scattered  through  it,  but 
they  are  not  hearty.  The  democracy  of  Bulwer  is  but  a 
rough,  honest  mask,  which  when  dropped,  and  it  is  liable 
to  drop,  reveals  the  cold,  sharply-cut  features,  the  proud 
eye,  and  the  supercilious  smile  of  the  dandy  baronet.  Bul¬ 
wer  is  an  aristocrat  in  blood  and  bone,  and  does  not  know 
how  to  write  for  the  people.  He  can  set  his  brain  to  work 
wherever  he  sees  that  it  can  work  with  most  effect,  but  that 
piece  of  exquisite  muscular  machinery  called  his  heart,  has 
no  real  sympathy  with  any  humanity  which  does  not  keep 
its  carriage,  its  liveried  servitors,  and  talk  largely  of  its 
pedigree. 

The  finest  exhibition  of  Mr.  Murdoch’s  power,  which  I 
have  witnessed,  was  in  the  character  of  Pierre,  in  the  tragedy 
of  ‘Venice  Preserved.’  This  was  indeed  magnificent.  The 
play  is  a  dark  and  terrible  one,  this  part,  in  particular,  re¬ 
quiring  great  strength  and  passion.  Mr.  Murdoch  was  fully 
equal  to  it  throughout  —  throwing  himself  completely  into 
the  stern  and  fierce,  yet  generous  character  of  the  head  con¬ 
spirator.  In  the  scene  when  he  refuses  forgiveness  to  his 
faithless  friend,  Jaffier,  he  is  terrible  in  the  reality  and 
intensity  of  his  passion. 

This  great  tragedy  of  Otway’s  is  a  truly  heathenish  con¬ 
ception —  a'combination  of  evil  and  fearful  elements  —  of 
relentless  cruelty,  imbittered  pride,  blood-thirsty  revenge, 
mad  hate,  and  love  which  is  most  like  hate  in  its  sharp  in¬ 
tensity.  It  seems  to  have  been  thrown  up  by  some  mental 
convulsion  from  the  depths  of  a  soul  raging  and  tost  with  hot 
and  stormy  passions.  There  is  about  it  the  beauty  of  sin, 
fierce  and  untamed  as  in  her  own  dark  domains,  and  an  in¬ 
fernal  strength  and  grandeur.  Amid  the  hurry  and  the  tern- 


208 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


pest,  we  catch  but  momentary  glimpses  of  the  better  nature 
of  man,  of  truth,  and  gentleness,  and  kindly  affections  as 
the  traveller  in  a  wild  night-storm  sees  gardens  and  houses 
by  flashes  of  lightning. 

A  very  charming  actress  is  Miss  Alexina  Fisher,  for  some 
years  one  of  the  chief  attractions  at  the  Walnut  Street  The¬ 
atre,  Philadelphia,  now  the  ‘  Bright  particular  Star’  of  Bar- 
num’s  Museum,  in  that  city.  Here,  though  she  plays  upon 
a  narrower  stage,  and  to  smaller  audiences  than  formerly, 
she  has  the  pleasant  assurance  that  she  enlists  the  kindly 
feelings  of  a  class  of  people  whose  regard  is  well  worth  hav¬ 
ing —  who  bestow  not  alone  admiration  and  applause,  but 
good  wishes  and  genuine  interest,  which  are  not  to  be  flung 
aside  by  the  actress,  like  mock-jewels,  in  the  green-room, 
but  which  the  woman  may  take  home  with  her,  to  solace  and 
inspire  in  hours  of  care  and  toil. 

To  this  pleasant  little  theatre  come  the  grave,  sober  citi¬ 
zens,  discreet  matrons,  demure  young  Quakeresses,  and 
hosts  of  children  — all  wickedly  decoyed  into  the  witnessing 
of  vain  plays  under  the  innocent  name  of  ‘  lectures.’  A 
great  imposition  surely,  but  strange  enough,  I  have  never 
heard  the  victims  complain  of  it.  On  the  contrary,  they 
submit  with  most  exemplary  resignation,  and  calmly  look  the 
evil  in  the  face ;  except,  indeed,  the  performance  be  a  com¬ 
edy,  when  their  equanimity  is  liable  to  be  a  little  disturbed. 
Without  the  objectionable  features  of  the  theatre  proper,  this 
is  an  agreeable  and  most  harmless  place  of  amusement, 
where  fairy  spectacles,  most  enchanting  to  children,  and  the 
lighter  dramas  are  admirably  presented. 

It  was  at  the  Walnut  that  I  first  saw  Miss  Fisher  as 
4  Beatrice.’  This  character  she  personated  with  peculiar 
vivacity  and  spirit.  Pier  finest  piece  of  acting  in  this,  was 
the  scene  with  Benedict,  after  Claudio’s  cruel  rejection  of 
Piero.  She  here  gave  true  expression  to  the  generous 
indignation  and  noble  faith  of  the  keen-witted  but  great- 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ACTORS  AND  PLAYS.  209 

hearted  woman.  I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  arch  coquetry 
and  pleasant  maliciousness  of  her  ‘  Mrs.  Ford.’  Verily  her 
pitiless  victimization  of  Sir  John  was  a  piece  of  most  enjoy¬ 
able  wickedness.  Her  ‘Lady  Teazle’  is  also  admirable. 
You  cease  to  wonder  at  Sir  Peter’s  fond  infatuation,  she  is 
so  enchantingly  provoking — and  with  that  sorely  tried  but 
indulgent  husband,  you  pardon  the  sauciness  and  sarcasm  of 
her  replies  for  coming  from  a  mouth  so  mockingly  beautiful. 
No  one  who  has  seen  her  as  ‘  Juliana  ’  in  ‘  The  Honey¬ 
moon,’  can  forget  her  pride  and  spirit,  her  charming  per¬ 
versity  and  petty  petulence  ;  or  help  regretting  the  ultimate 
taming  of  so  delightful  a  shrew.  The  scene  in  the  cottage, 
where  she  brings  wine  at  the  command  of  her  husband,  she 
makes  a  most  laughable  example  of  rebellious  obedience, 
of  conjugal  submission  under  protest.  She  is  quite  un¬ 
surpassable  here,  especially  in  her  emphatic  spelling  of 
‘  wont  ’  when  she  refuses  to  bring  the  wine.  But  Miss 
Fisher  has  another  range  of  character  than  the  merely 
brilliant  and  vivacious  —  indeed  she  deserves  most  consid¬ 
eration  for  her  versatility.  ’T  is  not  that  she  is  unapproach¬ 
ably  great  in  any  one  department  of  her  art,  but  that  she 
can  acquit  herself  well  in  so  many  directions.  1  have  never 
known  her  fail  in  any  thing  which  she  undertook,  though 
she  is  not  always  perfect  in  her  conceptions,  nor  is  she 
equal  in  her  personations.  She  has  some  unfortunate  man¬ 
nerisms,  which  mar  the  effect  of  her  acting.  But  when  she 
forgets  herself  in  her  character  these  disappear.  She  some¬ 
times  rather  oppresses  her  characters,  if  not  her  audience, 
with  her  own  exuberant  spirits  —  is  more  likely  to  err  by 
gifting  them  with  an  excess  of  girlish  vivacity  and  restless¬ 
ness,  than  of  dignity  and  ladylike  repose.  Yet  who  would 
not  prefer  her  impulsive  manner  and  lively  tones,  even 
though  they  occasionally  overpass  the  idea  of  the  author, 
to  the  set  airs  and  drawing-room  drawl  of  actresses  who 
measure  their  dainty  steps  across  the  boards,  laugh  and 

18* 


210 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


weep,  embrace  and  die,  with  a  most  delicate  and  doleful 
propriety  ? 

I  have  only  seen  Miss  Fisher  in  comedy  and  melo-drama, 
and  should  not  suppose  that  she  would  excel  in  high  tragedy. 
Her  physique  is  scarcely  suited  to  it,  though  she  is  very  like 
Mrs.  Siddons’s  idea  of  4  Lady  Macbeth  5  —  a  blonde  of  an 
exceedingly  gentle  and  feminine  appearance.  Mrs.  Siddons’s 
own  grand  success  in  this  character  has  made  it  the  peculiar 
property  of  the  actress  of  imposing  presence,  and  of  the 
darker  and  sterner  style  of  beauty. 

In  person,  Miss  Fisher  is  small,  but  not  wanting  in  ful¬ 
ness  and  freshness.  Her  fair,  expressive  face  can  be  arch, 
gentle,  loving  or  scornful,  tender  or  proud,  joyous  or -mourn¬ 
ful  —  but  never  fierce  or  terrible,  can  never  darken  with  a 
remorseless  hate,  or  freeze  the  gazer  with  the  awful  repose 
of  a  stony  despair.  But,  to  quote  from  a  friend,  4  In  all  those 
parts  of  the  drama  where  the  less  stormy,  but  not  less  pow¬ 
erful  passions  are  to  be  delineated — where  great  love  strug¬ 
gles  with  imagined  or  real  duty,  or  where  some  fearful 
sorrow  is  to  be  borne  for  the  sake  of  others  —  where  great 
anguish  is  to  be  endured  for  principle  —  in  all  things  that 
relate  to  the  affections,  to  the  deepest  and  best  emotions  of 
our  nature,  she  is  truly  amiable.’ 

Perhaps  the  character  of  4  Pauline,’  in  4  The  Lady  of 
Lyons,’  is  Miss  Fisher’s  best  personation,  though  her  4  Juliet’ 
has  been  pronounced  very  beautiful.  She  certainly  looks 
the  latter  character,  and  is  moreover  peculiarly  suited  to  it 
by  an  unusual  amount  of  womanly  tenderness,  that  quality 
so  needed  in  an  actress  to  subdue  and  idealize  the  sudden, 
summer-passion  of  the  ardent,  yet  pure-souled  child  of  the 
South. 

Alas,  poor  Juliet !  how  many,  by  a  weak  or  coarse  ren¬ 
dering,  make  of  thy  beautiful  love  a  childish  folly,  or  a 
voluptuous  amour;  how  few  give  it  to  us  as  they  find  it  — 
the  sweetest,  saddest  dream  of  poetry  that  ever  thrilled  the 
heart  of  youth  with  pure  delights  and  wild  longings,  and  a 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ACTORS  AND  PLAYS.  211 


dear  pain  it  would  not  exchange  for  joy.  The  quick,  spon¬ 
taneous,  yet  perfect  blending  of  the  fresh,  young  hearts  of 
the  hapless  lovers  of  Verona,  was  not  light  fancy  nor  wild 
romance,  but  the  exaltation  of  sentiment,  and  the  ideal  of 
a  passion  holding  within  its  glowing  circle  the  glory  of  life 
and  the  strength  of  death  —  and  the  immortal  play  which 
chronicles  their  sad  story,  flushed  as  it  is  with  all  the  beauty 
and  ripe  with  all  the  richness  of  Italy,  is  the  most  gorgeous 
garland  ever  woven  by  Song  to  be  flung  upon  the  grave  of 
Love. 

As  ‘  Pauline,’  Miss  Fisher  excels  many  actresses  of 
greater  reputation.  Her  conception  is  just  and  delicate, 
and  there  are  parts  of  her  acting  most  touching  and  beau¬ 
tiful.  For  instance,  her  listening  to  Claude’s  description  of 
his  palace  by  the  Lake  of  Como,  where  her  breath  seems 
hushed  in  rapt  attention,  and  all  her  soul  seems  radiating 
joy  and  fond  pride  through  her  upturned  face  ;  and  when,  in 
her  humiliation  and  anger,  she  taunts  him  by  repeating  his 
own  language  from  this  scene,  she  is  superb.  There  is  the 
triumph  of  pride  and  wounded  vanity  over  love,  while  yet 
the  latter  passion  has  an  evident  undertone,  softening  the 
bitterness  and  violence  of  the  first.  Her  bearing  toward 
Beauseant,  when  he  comes  to  the  cottage  in  the  absence  of 
Claude  and  his  mother  to  persecute  and  insult  her,  is  full  of 
womanly  scorn  and  the  dignity  of  a  high  nature,  which  no 
folly  nor  misfortune  can  abase.  In  the  parting  scene, 
wherein  the  devotion  of  the  wife,  the  regeneration  of  the 
spoilt  child  of  fortune,  is  complete  —  and  in  the  last  scene 
she  is  admirable. 

4  Julia,’  in  ‘  The  Hunchback,’  is  one  of  her  best  charac¬ 
ters.  In  the  gay  and  careless  dialogue  with  Helen,  which 
Clifford  overhears,  she  is  charming.  Through  the  proud, 
smiling  face  and  the  brilliant  tones  of  the  heartless  belle,  the 
better  nature  of  the  woman  flushes  and  trembles,  and  you 
know  that  while  seeking  to  mock  you  she  is  cruelly  mocking 
herself.  She  acquits  herself  well  in  the  passionate  interview 


212 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


with  Master  Walter,  as  also  in  that  with  the  secretary.  The 
exclamation  —  ‘Oh,  Clifford  !  is  it  you?’  is  a  fine  point, 
but  a  yet  finer  is  her  —  ‘Clifford,  why  don’t  you  speak  to 
me  ?  ’ 

When  Miss  Fisher  left  the  Walnut,  much  to  the  regret  of 
the  frequenters  of  that  house,  she  was  accompanied  by  her 
mother,  Mrs.  Thayer,  who  is  deservedly  a  favorite  with  tire 
public  as  an  actress  of  remarkable  comic  talent.  As  ‘  Dame 
Quickly,’  in  ‘  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor  ;  ’  the  ‘  Nurse, 
in  ‘  Romeo  and  Juliet;  ’  ‘  Nellie,'*  in  ‘  Extremes  ;  ’  ‘  Madame 
Deschappelles,’  in  ‘The  Lady  of  Lyons,’  she  seems  to  me 
quite  perfect.  In  the  latter  character,  the  air  and  tone  of  her 
command  to  the  Widow  Melnotte  —  ‘  Old  woman,  get  me  a 
chair ;  ’  are  inimitable. 

One  of  the  greatest,  though  simplest  delights  I  have  had 
of  late  was  in  witnessing  ‘  The  Cricket  on  the  Hearth,’  per¬ 
formed  by  this  Museum  company.  It  was  an  admirable 
representation.  Mr.  Baker  did  full  justice  to  the  fine,  manly 
character  of  ‘John  Perrybringle  ;’  Mr.  Thayer  was  an  ex¬ 
cellent  ‘  Caleb ;  ’  Mrs.  Thayer  an  absolutely  incomparable, 
unapproachable  ‘Tilly  Slowboy.’  But  what  shall  1  say  of 
Miss  Fisher  as  ‘  Dot?  ’  I  cannot  say  less  than  that  my  heart 
was  more  moved  by  the  truth,  the  sweetness,  and  the  exqui¬ 
site  tenderness  of  her  acting,  than  it  has  often  been  by  great 
exhibitions  of  high  tragic  power.  In  this  part,  she  equally 
charms  you  by  her  vivacity  and  melts  you  by  her  pathos. 
To  me,  there  is  more  power  in  her  simple  sobbing  than  in  the 
grand  death-scenes  of  most  other  actresses. 

This  character  of  ‘Dot’  has  with  me  always  stood  high 
and  fair  among  the  author’s  creations,  in  pure,  symmetrical 
beauty  —  the  beauty  of  goodness,  truth,  lovingness  and  rare 
nobility.  1  have  always  felt  that  she  must  be  a  true  and 
noble  woman  who  could  play  ‘  Dot  ’  perfectly.  This  1  say 
now,  and  will  add,  that  lovelier  than  ever  before  seems  that 
lovely  household  creation,  dear,  delicious  ‘  Dot  ’  —  that 
‘  brightest  little  star  that  ever  shone,’  henceforth  shines  with 
a  new  lustre. 


0 


A  FEW  WORDS  ABOUT  ACTOKS  AND  PLAYS.  213 

Miss  Fisher  does  not  seem  to  act  this  character,  but  to 
live  in  it  entirely  for  the  time.  She  is  ‘Dot ,’  the  fond  young 
wife,  petted,  but  not  spoiled  —  the  proud,  happy,  mother, 
and  the  tidy,  cheerful,  bustling  little  housekeeper.  It  was 
beautiful  to  see  her  tender,  coaxing  ways  toward  her  rough- 
but  loving  John,  when  she  set  his  supper  before  him  ana 
pressed  him  to  eat  —  and  then  the  lighting  of  his  pipe  —  then 
the  sitting  down  on  the  little  stool,  by  his  side,  and  leaning 
her  head  against  him  with  a  sense  of  protection,  content, 
and  home-comfort  speaking  in  her  attitude  and  every  look. 
Such  a  provoking  display  of  conjugal  felicity  she  makes  for 
the  benefit  of  Tackleton  —  and  so  saucily  she  talks  to  the 
crusty  old  bachelor,  as  she  stands  with  John’s  arm  about  her 
waist,  and  pats  his  hand,  in  a  half-tender,  half-tantalizing 
way.  But  she  is  most  charming  while  making  her  final  ex¬ 
planation  to  her  wondering  and  delighted  husband  —  where 
her  laughing  and  weeping,  and  4  Don’t  hug  me  yet,  John,’ 
are  the  cause  of  as  many  tears  as  smiles. 

Miss  Fisher  has  surely  fine  talent,  and,  what  is  more,  has 
enthusiasm,  the  quick,  effective  impulses  of  a  warm  heart, 
and  with  her  youth,  beauty,  ambition  and  industry,  has 
doubtless  before  her  a  fair  future  of  success  and  increasing 
fame.  1  can  hope  much  for  a  woman  who  has  enough  truth 
and  tenderness  in  her  nature  to  be  4  Dot,’  even  for  a  few 
hours  every  evening  —  who  is  capable  of  looking  such  love, 
of  speaking  such  trust,  of  moving  in  such  an  atmosphere  of 
household  affections  and  womanly  purity. 

Any  comment  upon  the  moral  tendency  of  the  beautiful 
production  of  Dickens  so  happily  dramatized,  may  here  seem 
unnecessary,  if  not  out  of  place.  Yet  I  can  but  remark  how 
much  more  it  is  in  accordance  with  the  growing  spirit  of  our 
age  than  the  old  standard  romances  and  plays.  It  is  a  story 
for  the  people  —  for  those  who  labor  and  love  and  suffer  in 
the  quiet  paths  and  ordinary  conditions  of  life.  What 
simple,  unquestioning  trust  —  what  hearty,  yet  tender  house¬ 
hold  love  —  what  large  charity  and  noble  forgiveness —  what 


214 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


rich  rewards  of  pure  goodness  —  what  softening  and  legen- 
eration  of  the  hard,  bad  heart,  are  shown  us  here  !  and 
who  among  the  old  novelists  and  dramatists  has  given  us 

such  lessons  to  be  pondered  at  our  firesides  ?  How  far 

nobler  is  honest  John  Perrybringle,  who,  when  believing  his 
wife,  his  idolized  ‘  Dot,’  false  to  him,  fully  forgives  her, 
though  after  a  great  struggle,  and  blesses  her  for  what  she 

has  been  to  him  in  the  past,  and  for  all  the  joys  she  has 

given  him  —  than  ‘  the  noble  Moor’  4  allaying  his  rages  and 
revenges,’  and  vindicating  his  honor  by  smothering  out  the 
life  of  poor  Desdemona. 

Surely  one  of  the  distinctive  features  of  our  times  is  the 
incarnation  of  the  true  Christian  idea  in  what  is  called  light 
literature.  The  religionist  and  the  moralist  have  created 
many  fair  forms  and  set  them  before  the  world,  but,  by  some 
strange  oversight,  they  have  too  often  left  out  the  soul  which 
should  have  animated  these  creations.  This  the  poet  and 
the  novelist  have  found,  and  are  triumphing  in  the  beautiful 
possession. 

Would  that  the  higher  social  philosophies,  the  nobler  ten¬ 
dencies  of  our  day  might  find  eloquent  voice  in  some  great 
drama.  It  would  be  but  a  concentration  of  a  divine,  pro¬ 
phetic  light,  scattered  in  sparkles  and  breaking  through  rifts 
throughout  the  dramas  of  Shakspeare.  Could  Shakspeare 
himself  take  a  new  human  embodiment  and  return  to  us 
now,  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  believe  that  he  would  shortly 
be  denounced  as  a  4  reformer.’  His  great  soul  would  scorn 
to  be  cooped  within  the  pale  of  conservatism,  but  would  leap 
forward  and  lead  the  race  of  the  age. 


THE  STORY  OF  A  VIOLET. 


Some  time  last  summer  I  bad  the  happiness  of  visiting  a 
most  agreeable  family  in  Salem,  Massachusetts  —  one  of  the 
pleasantest,  as  it  is  one  of  the  most  ancient  and  aristocratic, 
cities  of  New  England. 

My  hostess  was  a  lady  of  elegant  tastes,  and  true  refine¬ 
ment  of  intellect  and  feeling,  and  withal  one  who  has  made 
such  good  and  beautiful  use  of  wealth,  that  the  least  favored 
of  fortune  would  scarcely  dispute  its  being  her  rightful 
heritage  and  peculiar  desert.  An  accomplished  American 
lady,  from  her  position,  character,  and  rare  personal  attrac¬ 
tions,  necessarily  much  in  the  world,  her  fine  domestic 
qualities,  her  warm  domestic  affections,  attest  that  she  is  not 
altogether  of  the  world. 

A  few  years  since  my  friend,  Mrs.  S - ,  made  the  tour 

of  Europe  with  her  husband  and  daughter,  leaving  at  home 
with  his  nurse  her  youngest  child,  a  little  boy  some  three 
years  of  age. 

During  my  stay  with  her,  she  was  so  kind  as  to  show  me 
a  portfolio,  filled  with  simple  memorials  of  the  most  memo¬ 
rable  places  which  she  had  visited  on  her  tour.  Among 
these,  I  found  flowers  from  the  temple  of  Jupiter  Serapis, 
from  the  house  of  Sallust,  and  from  the  tragic  theatre  of 
Pompeii,  with  fig  leaves  from  the  temple  of  Isis  —  names 
rendered  doubly  immortal  by  the  glorious  romance  of  Bul- 
wer.  There  was  myrtle  from  Sorrentum,  grass  from  the 
gate  of  Cumae,  and  a  spray  of  wild  grape  from  the  temple  of 


216 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Venus,  Baioe.  There  was  fern  from  the  Sacred  Hill,  lichen 
from  the  Forum,  grass  from  the  Capitol,  wild  vine  fiom 
the  Coliseum,  and  jasmine  from  the  Protestant  cemetery, 
where  Keats  and  the  ashes  of  Shelley  aie  buned.  Theie 
were  field  flowers  from  the  lake  of  the  beautiful  name, 
Thrasimine,  and  orchis  from  that  lake  of  unapproachable 
loveliness,  Como,  and  a  tulip  flower  from  near  the  tower  in 
which  Galileo  was  imprisoned.  There  was  grass  from  the 
bridge  of  Lodi,  gentian  from  the  pass  of  the  Splugen 
there  were  leaves  from  a  tree  overhanging  the  wounded 
lion  of  Thorwaldsen,  cut  in  the  rocks  by  Lake  Lucerne 
brave  little  flowers  from  the  glaciers  —  heaths  from  Cha- 
mouni,  with  the  Anemone  Alpina  from  the  pass  01  the  Jura. 
There  was  acacia  from  Ferney,  the  sight  of  which  brought 
at  once  to  the  mind  the  cynical  and  infidel  philosopher, 
whose  sublime  egotism  of  genius  was  more  than  a  match 
for  the  hereditary  egotism  of  royalty  —  a  blossom  of  the 
wild  pea  from  the  Castle  of  Chillon,  which  even  more  vividly 
brought  before  one  that  lonely  prisoner,  ‘  whose  hair  was 
gray,  but  not  with  years,’  and  for  whom  a  world  wept  when 
genius  told  the  story  of  his  sorrow.  There  was  fir  from  the 
Black  Forest,  and  a  bunch  of  forget-me-nots  from  Heidel- 
burgh  Castle.  Then  came  a  wild  rose  from  Waterloo, 
which  one  could  almost  fancy  crimsoned  with  the  blood 
once  rained  upon  that  awful  battle  plain  —  followed  by  a 
sweet  little  pensee  plucked  from  the  grave  of  the  world’s 
most  glorious  singer,  Malibran.  There  was  a  trumpet  flower 
from  the  gardens  of  Fontainbleau,  a  sprig  from  a  willow 
planted  by  Marie  Antoinette’s  own  hand,  and  cedar  from  the 
Cliapelle  Expiatoire ,  Paris.  There  was  ivy  from  Windsor 
—  a  rose  from  Westminster  —  and  a  simple  daisy  from 
Kenilworth,  ah,  fit  emblem  and  memento  of  sweet  Amy 
Robsart !  There  were  oak  leaves  from  Blenheim  Castle, 
autumn-crimsoned  leaves  from  Oxford,  mosses  from  Tin- 
tern  Abbey  and  Warwick  Castle,  ferns  from  Pladdon 
Hall,  and  a  magnolia  from  Chatsworth.  Then  came 


THE  STORY  OP  A  VIOLET. 


217 


flowers  from  Melrose,  Dryburgh,  Abbotsford,  and  from  the 
grave  of  Scott.  Last  came  a  rose  from  Holyrood  —  sweet 
briar  from  Roslin  Castle  —  leaves  from  a  tree  shading  the 
cottage  of  Burns  —  flowers  from  the  banks  of  Greta,  from 
the  valley  of  St.  John’s,  Rydal-water,  Windermere,  Rydal 
Mount  —  and  a  sprig  from  a  tree  overhanging  the  gate 
through  which  Wordsworth  passed  daily  for  his  meditative 
ramble  among  his  beloved  hills. 

All  these  and  many  more,  there  were  having  about  them 
some  proud  or  sweet  or  mournful  association,  which  was  as 
a  magic  spell  to  bring  far  scenes  near  —  to  restore  the  past, 
to  cause  it  even  to  give  up  its  glorious  dead.  But  as  I  turned 
over  this  rare  portfolio,  I  found  among  some  of  the  most 
valuable  of  those  mementos  of  what  had  been  less  a  tour  of 
pleasure  than  the  pilgrimage  of  a  poetic  and  artistic  soul  — 
a  common  garden  violet,  carefully  pressed,  and  underneath 
it  was  written,  ‘  A  violet  from  home ,  which  has  been  kissed 
by  Willie.  —  Rome.' 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  VIOLET. 

No  more  the  dream,  the  longing  — 
The  pilgrim  strays  at  last 
Amid  thy  haunted  temples, 

Thou  city  of  the  past, 

Whose  eagles  once  made  darkness 
Where’er  their  wings  unfurled  — 
Whose  seven  hills  propped  a  glory 
That  domed  the  ancient  world. 

With  thy  ruins  glooming  round  her, 
Thy  columns  rising  fair, 

With  the  murmur  of  the  Tiber 
Floating  down  the  quiet  air  ; 

With  the  morn-light  falling  o’er  her 
In  a  bounteous  golden  shower, 
Sits  the  stranger  still  and  tearful, 
Gazing  on  a  faded  flower  ! 

19 


218 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Ah,  she  little  heeds  thy  grandeurs, 

Or  thy  woes,  discrowned  Rome  — 

For  the  vision  of  the  violet, 

The  vision  of  her  home ! 

She  cannot  lose  her  spirit 
Tn  the  glories  of  thine  art, 

For  the  stirring  of  a  little  love 
That  nestles  in  her  heart ! 

She  heedeth  not  thy  melody’s 
Most  sweet,  prolonged  strain, 

For  the  music  of  a  little  voice 
That  singeth  in  her  brain  ! 

Pictures  that  the  world  illumine 
Glow  around  her,  wondrous  fair  — 
But  her  heart  paints  lovelier  pictures 
On  the  morn’s  delicious  air  ; 

Of  a  far  off  pleasant  chamber, 

Looking  out  upon  the  sea, 

Scented  by  the  clambering  roses, 
Shaded  by  the  swaying  tree  ; 

Where  the  shadow  of  the  willow 
Falls  across  a  little  bed, 

Where  upon  a  snowy  pillow 
Lies  a  little  golden  head  ! 

Where  the  morning  sun  comes  early  — 
Hastes  to  wake  the  syveetest  eyes 
That  give  back  the  tender  azure 
And  the  brightness  of  his  skies. 
Half  believes  that  dreaming  mother 
Eager  arms  are  round  her  thrown, 
And  those  sweetest  eyes  up-shining 
Smile  and  smile  into  her  own. 

But  the  lovely  vision  passeth  — 

Babe,  and  bed,  and  pleasant  room  — 
Yet  she  dews  with  tears  the  blossom, 
Breathing  long  its  faint  perfume — 


THE  STORY  OF  A  VIOLET. 


219 


Ah,  ’t is  sweeter  than  the  fragrance 
Of  the  gardens  of  the  south, 

And  most  like  the  breath  once  nightly 
Drawn  in  kisses  from  his  mouth. 

Ye  may  be  treasured  well  and  long, 

Mosses,  and  sprays,  and  Alpine  flowers, 
With  grasses  from  the  battle  plain, 

And  ivy  from  old  ruined  towers  ; 

But  to. that  mother’s  yearning  heart 
Yet  dearer,  dearer  far  shall  be 
The  violet  that  Willie  kissed  — 

The  violet  that  Willie  kissed, 

And  sent  across  the  sea. 

Thus  ever  to  my  wandering  heart 

May  one  dear  hope,  one  memory  come  ; 

Thus  to  my  deepest  soul  go  down 

One  word  of  peace  and  blessing  —  home . 

Be  other  brows  by  pleasure’s  wreath 
Or  glory’s  coronal  oppressed, 

To  me  the  humbler  flower  seems  best, 

Some  sweet,  wild  bloom  with  dews  still  wet  — 
So  love,  but  kiss  a  violet  — 

Oh,  love,  but  kiss  a  violet, 

And  fling  it  to  my  breast ! 


4 


/ 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


LETTER  I. 

Philadelphia,  April,  1847. 

Spring  is  blooming  out  upon  us  beautifully  indeed.  We 
have  enjoyed  a  long  succession  of  sunny  and  balm-breathing 
days,  which  render  an  out-doors’  life  dangerously  fascinat¬ 
ing;  to  such  unfortunate  mortals  as  have  work  to  do.  There 
is  a  luxury  in  mere  life  at  this  season  of  the  year,  which 
pours  into  the  most  active  and  energetic  natures,  a  soft, 
dreamy  languor,  4  a  very  pleasant  idleness,’  a  delicious  and 
most  poetic  laziness.  The  mind,  submitting  to  a  gentle 
bondage,  is  for  a  while  well  content  to  bend  lover-like  over 
the  kindling  face  of  nature,  just  awaking  from  her  long 
winter  sleep,  to  mark  in  her  eyes  the  blue  of  clear  heavens, 
and  in  her  cheek  the  flush  of  coming  rose-time,  and  to 
drink  in  her  first  breathings  balmy  with  the  tenderness  born 
of  repose  and  deep-drawn  and  heavy  with  long  delicious 
dreams. 

In  our  city-life  we  cannot  go  forth  to  meet  sweet  Spring, 
half  way,  but  we  know  when  she  is  here  in  earnest.  In  the 
fields,  lily-bells  may  fling  their  soft  perfumes  on  the  passing 
breeze ;  but  our  Chestnut-street  belles ,  most  like  to  these, 
that  4  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin,’  arrayed  more 
finely,  bearing  themselves  more  proudly,  sow  the  air  with 
Roussell’s  best  perfumes  — 4  Rose^  1  Violet ^  4  Mille-fleurs,"1 
and  ‘  Bouquet  des  dames .’  Dandelions  are  decking  the 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


221 


meadows,  but  dandies  are  flourishing  alone  the  pave ,  equally 
flash  and  up-startish.  Lilac-leaves  and  parasols  are  being 
unfolded ;  flowers,  natural  and  artificial,  are  looking  up ; 
fountains  and  children  are  playing  in  the  parks ;  coughs 
and  rheumatisms  are  going  off,  and  doctors’  bills  are  coming 
in ;  muffs,  boas,  cloaks  and  comfortable  over-shoes,  like  long- 
tried  statesmen,  are  retiring  from  active  life,  and  seeking 
privacy,  till  the  next  campaign ;  radishes,  lettuce,  country- 
clerks,  and  other  green  things,  are  coming  into  town,  and 
pleasure-seekers,  nature-lovers,  and  invalids  are  going  out 
for  a  snuff  of  fresh  air,  the  novelty  of  unobstructed  sight, 
and  the  luxury  of  unobserved  action. 

Will  you  indulge  me  in  a  little  musical  gossip  —  a  sort 
of  informal  report  of  the  concert  of  last  evening  ?  To  you 
I  need  hardly  acknowledge  that  I  know  nothing  of  the  sci¬ 
ence  of  music.  I  am  also  ignorant  of  astronomy,  but  I  can 
look  up  adoringly  into  the  midnight  heaven,  and  the  stars 
mirror  themselves  in  the  depths  of  my  spirit.  I  am  not 
deep  in  the  mysteries  of  operatic  lore ;  I  cannot  discourse 
learnedly  of  trills,  shakes  and  cadenzas  ;  I  do  not  own  a 
dictionary  of  musical  terms ;  my  ear  is  not  trained  and 
eager  to  detect  short-comings  in  time,  and  transgressions  in 
tune.  But,  with  me,  the  love  of  music  has  grown  to  be  a 
wild  enthusiasm,  a  passionate  adoration,  and  music  is  in 
itself,  to  me,  the  revelation  of  a  higher  life  —  God’s  elo¬ 
quent  evangel  to  the  sense  —  divinity  made  audible. 

In  my  present  blissful  ignorance,  nothing  is  so  distasteful 
to  me  as  that  mere  criticism  which  coldly  analyzes  and  re¬ 
morselessly  dissects  the  sweetest  strains  and  most  exquisite 
passages ;  and  I  sometimes  wonder  if  we,  poor  unscientific 
ones,  will  ever  be  delivered  from  the  need  of  critics ;  if, 
when  at  the  last,  we  pass  those  gates, 

‘  On  golden  hinges  turning,’ 

and  the  celestial  harmonies  break  upon  our  ear,  we  may 
then  be  allowed  to  express  our  rapture,  our  ‘  exceeding 

19* 


222 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


great  joy,’  without  waiting  for  the  better  judgment  of  the 
dilettanti. 

Therefore  it  is,  my  friend,  that  I  can  only  speak  of  the 
effect  of  musical  performances  on  my  own  mind,  can  only 
give  my  impressions  of  great  musical  artists. 

To  begin  with  the  one  whose  music  affected  me  most  — 
Knoop.  I  could  scarce  believe  him  all  I  had  heard,  when 
he  first  appeared,  a  quiet,  respectable-looking,  stout,  oldish 
gentleman,  in  spectacles.  But  no  sooner  had  he  drawn  the 
first  soft,  bewildering  tones  from  his  magnificent  instrument, 
than  my  heart  lay  hushed  within  me,  and  wave  after  wave 
of  richest  melody  swept  over  my  spirit,  till  it  panted  and 
grew  faint  with  excess  of  delight.  In  Knoop,  I  recognised 
the  artist  and  the  true-hearted  man,  and  I  felt  the  presence 
of  genius.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  playing  for  his  audience, 
but  for  himself  alone.  Rapt  and  apart,  he  sat,  bending 
over  his  beloved  violoncello,  and  they  two  seemed,  like  old 
friends,  holding  sweet  and  beautiful  communion  together. 

And  Sivori  —  ‘delicate  Ariel’  of  music’s  magic  realm, 
bewitching  spright,  conjuring  with  all  the  delicious  enchant¬ 
ments  of  sound  —  pretty,  passionate,  and  petit,  he  whom 
one  might  almost  fancy  capable  of  taking  up  lodgings  in 
his  own  violin.  I  can  see  him  before  me  now  —  his  slight, 
graceful  figure,  his  fine  head,  crowned  with  dark  clustering 
curls,  his  eye  gleaming  with  the  quick  fire  of  genius,  and 
his  impatient,  nervous  action,  while  tuning  his  wonderful 
instrument.  Now,  he  lays  that  instrument  caressingly  to 
its  place,  he  holds  the  bow  delicately  in  his  small  white 
hand,  and  the  diamond  ring  he  wears  seems  to  light  it  in 
its  rapid  and  beautiful  play.  Ye  gods,  ye  never  listened 
to  harmonies  such  as  these,  even  when  Apollo  gave  his 
musical  entertainments,  assisted  by  Prima  Donnas  Euterpe 
and  Erato  !  The  airs  of  your  sacred  mount  never  vibrated 
to  such  strains,  or  the  rapturous  echoes  would  have  been 
vocal  forever !  —  and  silence  rests  on  old  Olympus  now. 

The  first  thing  which  struck  me  in  Henri  Herz,  was  his 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


223 


freedom  from  the  consequential,  ridiculous  airs  which  char¬ 
acterize  the  manner  of  another  distinguished  pianist,  self- 
complacent,  pretentious,  and  plaid-pantalooned, —  whose 
parading  of  a  lion-skin  sobriquet ,  irresistibly  reminds  one  of 
a  certain  little  fable  in  iEsop. 

Herz  surely  plays  with  far  more  sweetness  and  delicacy 
than  his  rival.  He  does  not  raise  a  fearful  tempest  of  crash¬ 
ing,  and  booming  sounds,  till  an  Alpine  midnight  seems 
around  us,  where 

‘  From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 

Leaps  the  live  thunder  !  ’ 

He  does  not  thus  conjure  up  ‘  night,  and  storm,  and  dark¬ 
ness,’  scenes  of  grandeur  and  of  power,  and  then  turn  to 
his  audience,  with  a  self-satisfied  smirk,  which  says,  1  There, 
what  think  you  of  that  ?  I  ’ll  take  your  applause,  if  you 
please.’  He  does  not  seem  to  strive  and  agonize  for  effect ; 
he  seems  rather  to  seek  music  as  a  pastime,  as  a  great  ioy. 
He  does  not  rule  his  sweet  instrument  as  a  despot,  he  wooes 
it  as  a  lover. 

Were  I  not  at  the  bottom  of  the  page,  I  would  discourse 
upon  a  novel  musical,  or  rather  musical  phenomenon,  in  the 
shape  of  a  singing  mouse ,  whose  soirees  in  this  city  have 
been  quite  numerously  attended.  But  as  it  is,  our  interest¬ 
ing  debutante ,  Mademoiselle  Souris,  must  bide  her  time. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  II. 

New  Brighton,  Pa.  Oct.  18,  1848. 

If  the  outward  influences  of  wind  and  weather  were 
suffered  to  affect  my  mind  to  any  great  degree,  I  should 
write  you  a  most  miserable  and  ill-natured  letter  this  time. 
It  is  a  vile  day,  a  most  unbearable  day  out  of  doors.  It 
neither  rains  nor  shines,  nor  blows  steadily  and  consistently. 
Nature  is  in  a  fit  of  the  sulks,  and  won’t  be  agreeable. 


224 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


It  is  not  decidedly  and  sharply  cold,  but  the  day  has  a 
pervading  chilliness,  altogether  more  intolerable.  Pedestri¬ 
ans  hurry  by,  bent  over,  with  their  coats  buttoned  tightly 
about  them,  and  their  hands  in  their  pockets.  The  farmer 
in  his  wagon  has  an  azure-tinted  nose,  and  lips  of  the  same 
hue,  and  he  occasionally  slaps  his  bare  hands  upon  his  knee, 
to  bring  back  the  circulation.  An  emigrant  wagon  has  just 
passed,  a  thin-faced  woman  sitting  in  front,  with  her  lord, 
shivering  under  a  buffalo  skin ;  the  infant  pioneers  in  the 
background,  huddled  together,  and  peering  out  from  beneath 
a  thick  blanket. 

Among  all  the  passers-by,  not  one  face  looks  cheerful, 
not  one  lip  is  graced  by  a  smile,  not  one  eye  is  lit  with  a 
pleasant  twinkle.  All  go  on  their  way  solemn  or  sullen,  as 
though  struck  with  a  temporary  misanthropy,  a  new-born 
disgust  with  human  life.  Even  the  village  house-dogs  seem 
unusually  disturbed  in  temper,  out  of  humor  and  harmony, 
and  keep  up  an  interminable  barking,  as  though  looking  like 
the  famous  Diogenes,  in  bristling  expectation  for  an  4  enemy 
around  the  corner.’ 

I  will  except,  however,  one  dog  of  gentlemanly  habits  and 
most  aristocratic  evenness  of  temper ;  a  noble  black  setter, 
who  lies  quietly  upon  the  hearth-rug,  near  me  now,  his 
beautiful  ringletted  head  filled,  most  probably,  with  dreams 
of  woodcock  and  pheasants,  dim  recollections  of  by-gone 
larkings  and  4  hare- breadth  ’scapes,’  or  sweet  foreshadow¬ 
ings  of  that  canine  elysium  yet  to  come,  where  no  huntei  s 
fowling-piece  will  hang  fire,  and  no  thorns  wound  the  foot 
of  the  setter ;  where  every  copse  and  forest  hollow  is  alive 
with  the  leap  of  the  rabbit  and  squirrel,  and  musical  with 

the  whirr  of  innumerable  wings. 

A  friend  writes  to  me  to  know,  if,  while  I  praise  the 
genius  of  George  Sand,  I  feel  sympathy  in  her  daring 
eccentricities  and  peculiarities,  by  which  I  suppose  is  meant 
her  donning  male  attire,  cropping  her  curls,  smoking  cigars, 
saying,  4  Sacre  !  ’  and  4  Mon  Dieu  !  5  and  taking  part  in  polit- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


225 


ical  strife  so  manfully.  To  this  I  would  reply,  that  I  not 
only  feel  no  sympathy  in  such  a  course  of  conduct,  but  do 
not  understand  it.  I  cannot,  for  the  life  of  me,  comprehend 
why  a  woman  who  conceives  herself  wronged  by  the  other 
sex,  should  desire  to  resemble  it.  To  me  it  appears  that, 
should  I  suffer  wrong  and  oppression  from  man,  I  should 
exult  in  the  dissimilarity  which  nature  had  created  between 
us,  and  strive  to  render  it  greater  by  the  habits  of  my  life 
and  by  more  intense  womanliness  of  feeling.  This  scorn  of 
one’s  own  sex  must  be  a  miserable  feeling,  pitiably  childish 
and  contemptible,  and  one  which,  need  I  assure  my  friends, 
I  am  in  no  danger  of  cherishing.  How  has  woman  been 
ever  and  always  the  theme  and  the  inspiration  of  the  poet ; 
how  has  her  love  been  the  hidden  strength,  the  invisible 
shield  of  the  patriot ;  how  has  her  faith  sustained  martyrs, 
and  her  truth  upheld  nations  ;  how  has  she  shown  the  world 
that  she  knows  well  how  to  suffer  and  be  strong,  to  live  a 
life  of  peace,  humility  and  sacrifice,  and  die  unknown,  but 
with  a  glory  greater  than  lives  in  the  last  fiery  glance  of 
warriors,  or  settles  on  the  dead  brows  of  kings.  For  woman 
Eden  first  bloomed ;  to  her  arms  descended  the  God-child  ; 
before  her  tearful  eyes  first  appeared  the  risen  Lord  ;  ah, 
in  that  dark  hour  when  I  cease  to  honor  the  sex  so  conse¬ 
crated  by  religion  and  poetry,  Heaven  help  me  ! 

Some  of  my  friends,  of  a  certain  class,  have  questioned 
me  concerning  my  opinions  upon  ‘  Woman’s  Rights.’  This 
is  a  subject  not  without  interest  with  me.  I  believe  that 
there  must  be  some  living  truth  in  sentiments  so  widely 
spread  abroad,  and  so  rapidly  gaining  ground  ;  I  believe 
that  woman  has  some  rights  most  unjustly  withheld.  I  can 
only  say  that  I  have  not,  as  a  writer,  advocated  those  rights, 
because  I  have  not  felt  that  inward  call ,  which  I  am  Quaker 
enough  to  believe  one  should  wait  for,  in  all  such  extraordi¬ 
nary  matters.  Yet  to  those  who  feel  conscience  and  duty 
imperatively  prompting  them  to  a  bold  utterance  of  truth 
on  this  subject,  despite  the  horror  of  over-sensitive  friend- 


226 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


ship,  the  shrugs  and  sneers  of  fashion,  and  all  the  pop-gun 
volleys  of  senseless  ridicule  ;  to  all  such  I  say,  God  speed  ! 
Knowing  that  some  good  must  come  out  of  the  struggle,  — 
the  strengthening  and  development  of  individual  character, 
if  not  the  exaltation  of  the  sex. 

I  have  lately  been  very  much  interested  by  a  work  of 
Mrs.  Jamieson’s,  4  Memoirs  of  the  Loves  of  the  Poets.’  It 
is  something  to  see  that  however  poets  may  have  married, 
their  loves  were  seldom  mistaken  or  unworthy.  They  gave 
the  deepest  feelings  of  their  hearts,  the  richest  homage  of 
their  genius,  to  women  of  truly  exalted  and  beautiful  charac¬ 
ters.  What  glorious  creatures  were  Tasso’s  Leonora,  Spen¬ 
ser’s  Elizabeth,  Lord  Lyttleton’s  Lucy,  and  Klopstock’s 
Meta  !  Ah,  worthy,  most  worthy  to  wear  forever  the  gentle 
glory  with  which  love  and  genius  have  crowned  them  ! 

Since  reading  this  work,  I  have  thought  much  upon  that 
greatest  mystery  of  literary  biography,  the  History  of  the 
Loves  of  Dean  Swift,  and  of  his  incomprehensible,  almost 
demoniacal  power  over  those  two  gifted,  noble,  and  long- 
suffering  women,  Stella  and  Vanessa.  There  is  certainly  a 
mystery  which  I  could  never  fathom  in  the  influence  which 
that  old,  ugly,  coarse,  passionate  satirist,  acquired  and  ever 
retained  over  those  two  young,  beautiful,  elegant,  and  sensi¬ 
tive  creatures. 

What  charm  could  there  have  been  in  his  virulent  satire, 
in  his  bitterness,  selfishness,  and  severity,  in  all  the  assassin¬ 
like  powers  of  his  desecrated  genius,  over  their  genial  and 
gentle  spirits  ? 

If  genius-worship  was  the  secret  of  this  life-long  infatua¬ 
tion,  this  terrible  4  martyrdom  of  the  heart,’  let  us  thank 
Heaven  that  the  day  of  such  homage  to  intellect  is  past ! 
Genius,  by  itself,  is  indeed  a  poor  object  for  adoration  — 
cold,  proud,  selfish,  and  defiant.  A  great  character,  a  pure 
life,  an  honorable  mind,  a  warm,  faithful  heart,  —  how  infi¬ 
nitely  higher,  grander,  and  more  beautiful  are  these,  how 
immeasurably  more  worthy  the  willing  homage  of  the  soul, 
the  enduring  devotion  of  the  affections. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


227 


Surely  much  of  the  court  and  servile  deference  paid  of  old 
to  poetical  genius,  was  degrading  to  manhood  and  woman¬ 
hood  ;  and  I  rejoice  to  know  that  the  spirit  of  republicanism 
is  entering  into  all  these  things.  If  to  genius  belongs  what 
it  lays  claim  to,  a  spiritual  royalty,  the  cry  of  late  has  been, 
Down  with  its  ‘  divine  rights  !  1  Men  who  find  themselves 
gifted  with  a  little  more  of  the  immortal  fire  than  their 
fellows,  shall  no  longer  presume  to  live  above  and  beyond 
the  common  rules  and  obligations  of  morality  —  no  longer 
be  permitted  to  ‘  scatter  firebrands  and  death’  abroad  through 
society.  It  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  noble  impulses  and 
high  aspirations  always  accompany  genius,  and  that  a  portion 
of  Heaven  pervades  even  its  errors  and  degradations.  In 
my  opinion  Burns,  in  his  most  lawless  moods,  never  penned 
a  worse  verse,  one  calculated  to  have  a  more  pernicious 
influence,  than  that  ingenious  defence  of  himself,  which  he 
puts  into  the  mouth  of  his  muse  1  Coila,’  in  his  ‘  Dream  :  ’  — 

1  I  saw  thy  pulse’s  maddening  play 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure’s  devious  way, 

Misled  by  fancy’s  meteor  ray, 

By  passion  driven  — 

But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 
Was  light  from  Heaven  !  ’ 

Only  look  at  the  cool  impudence  of  this  defence  !  He 
‘knew  his  duty,  and  he  did  it  not but  instead  of  bravely 
taking  the  blame  and  the  shame  on  himself,  he  would 
ungratefully  throw  it  back  upon  that  Power  who  gifted  him 
with  all  that  redeemed  his  nature  from  sensuality  and  his 
name  from  forgetfulness.  I  like  to  see  an  independence, 
even  in  crime,  a  kind  of  defiant  manliness,  a  sort  of  Satanic 
bravery ;  and  for  not  all  the  vice  of  Burns  have  Iv  felt  the 
contempt  which  this  one  poor  subterfuge  has  excited.  It 
showed  that  even  his  originally  fine  nature  occasionally 
‘  pointed  to  the  sneaking  quarter  of  the  moral  compass.’ 

Thank  Pleaven  that  poets  are  no  longer  moral  Robin 


228 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Hoods,  given  up  to  a  life  of  lawless  indulgence,  joyous, 
reckless,  and  irresponsible  ;  they  now  recognise  a  more 
unselfish,  a  diviner  mission  for  Genius,  and  know  that  honor, 
truth  of  heart,  and  purity  of  life  are  the  grandest  elements 
of  greatness.  Adieu. 


LETTER  III. 

B - ,  Conn. 

I  am  at  present  domesticated  in  one  of  the  sweetest 
villages  in  New  England.  To  me,  it  is  hallowed  by  a 
thousand  tender  associations  —  as  the  birth-place  and  early 
home  of  a  beloved  mother  —  where  rest  many  of  her  dead. 
It  is  embosomed  in  the  richest  foliage  —  shadowed  by  the 
grandest  old  trees,  and  surrounded  by  the  greenest  hills,  and 
the  most. methodically  laid  stone  walls.  There  are  a  plenty 
of  churches,  of  course,  looking  as  only  New  England 
churches  can,  —  spacious  and  home-like  mansions,  and  then 
comes  a  sprinkling  of  the  prettiest  little  cottages  imaginable. 
A  stream,  just  large  enough  to  move  gracefully  and  murmur 
deliciously,  not  far  from  where  I  am  sitting,  is  laving  the 
roots  of  the  scorched  trees,  cooling  the  fevered  air,  and 
kissing  to  life  again  the  languid  water-lilies,  which  are 
fainting  on  his  bosom. 

Ah,  blessed,  forever  blessed,  be  His  name,  who  has  left 
our  fallen  world  yet  so  beautiful !  Let  us  rejoice  in  the 
possession  of  the  fair  revealings,  the  shadowing  forth,  the 
embodying  of  divine  love  and  power,  even  in  fragments. 
What  a  poor  compound  of  madness  and  folly  the  sceptic, 
who  can  look  upon  this  world  of  ours,  even  in  the  wreck  of 
its  Eden  state,  and  deny  all  honor  and  glory  to  Him, 
whose  word  wheeled  it  out  of  dim  chaos,  into  life,  and  light, 
and  beauty,  veined  it  with  leaping,  pulsing  streams,  robed  it 
with  verdure,  gemmed  it  with  flowers,  crowned  it  with  the 
golden  clouds  of  morning, and  baptized  it  with  the  dews  of 
evening. 


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229 


Cast  your  eye  over  this  field,  at  our  left.  There, 
many  years  ago,  might  have  been  seen  a  sturdy  farmer, 
bending  over  his  plough.  A  messenger  came  in  hot  haste, 
and  told  in  hurried  words  the  stirring  story  of  the  fight  at 
Lexington  : 

r 

4  That  lightning  flash,  that  thunder  peal, 

That  told  the  storm  was  nigh.  ’ 

With  strong  resolve  written  on  his  brow,  and  a  strange 
fire  gleaming  from  his  eye,  the  farmer  hastens  home  — 
flings  the  harness  from  one  of  those  plough-horses  —  tosses 
on  a  saddle  —  mounts  in  his  ploughman’s  frock  —  gives 
orders  to  a  servant  to  follow  with  his  wardrobe  and  arms  — 
calls  out  his  hurried  adieu,  and  gallops  off  for  the  conflict ! 

Glorious  old  Put !  brave  and  trusty  farmer-soldier !  — 
withered  be  the  hand  that  would  rob  thy  laurels  of  one 
blood-bought  leaf!  Homage  to  thine  honest  name,  and 
honor  to  thy  strong  and  fiery  heart  forever  ! 

Would  you  see  where  they  have  laid  him  ?  the  grave-yard 
is  not  far  distant  —  we  will  seek  it.  He  lies  beneath  this 
plain  slab  —  the  long  inscription  is  familiar  to  us  both. 
How  unlike  the  epitaphs  of  our  day ;  and  yet  it  is  com¬ 
paratively  modern.  I  see  your  eye  flash  indignantly,  as 
you  mark  how  many  have  chosen  to  send  themselves  down 
to  a  fool’s  immortality,  by  carving  their  pitiful  names  on 
this  sacred  stone. 

Yet  this  disturbs  not  the  dead.  After  his  stormy  career, 
after  the  tumult  of  the  strife,  and  the  glory  of  the  victory, 
slumbers  the  veteran,  as  sweetly,  as  dreamlessly,  as  the 
babe  they  buried  but  yesterday.  Now,  no  alarm,  no  re¬ 
veille,  no  battle-cry,  no  shout  of  victory,  nor  the  clash  of 
swords,  nor  the  roar  of  musketry,  nor  the  thunder  of  the 
cannonade,  may  break  upon  his  death-sleep. 

This  is  a  lovely  burial-place.  My  heart  yearns  over  it 
—  here  rest  my  kindred.  But,  dear  friends,  this  summer 
sun  looks  too  boldly  down  on  the  couches  of  our  loved  ones, 

20 


230 


greenwood  leaves. 


Surround  them  more  closely  with  curtaining  leaves,  and 
canopy  them  with  shadowy  branches.  1  es  ;  plant  ye  trees, 
that  the  robin  and  the  wren  may  build  their  nests,  and 
warble  their  lays  above  your  dead  — for  when  ‘  the  morning 
stars  sang"  together,  ’  over  the  new  earth,  fragments  of 
celestial  harmonies,  and  sweet  symphonies,  and  cherubic 
strains,  floating  downward,  took  to  themselves  wings,  and 
were  birds. 

I  see  no  flowers,  gleaming  up  amid  the  pleasant  grass. 
Why  are  they  not  here  ?  They  are  pure  and  beautiful  stdl 
as  when  they  budded  and  blushed  in  early  paradise.  Plant 
ye  them,  and  tend  them  lovingly,  that  they  may  make,  with 
their  perfumed  presence,  a  fitting  air  for  the  angels  to 
breathe,  when  they  come  down  to  watch  beside  these 

graves. 


•  LETTER  IV. 

New  Brighton,  I'eh.  1849. 

Many  thanks  to  yoit  for  LowelPs  ‘  Fable  for  Clitics, 
have  been  highly  delighted  by  it  —  or,  as  the  author  would 
say,  ‘  Amused  in  it,  by  seeing  my  betters  cut  up  and  abused 

in  it.’ 

It  is  certainly  full  of  wit  and  humor,  and  abounding  in 
capital  hits,  while  much  of  the  criticism  is  just  and  genial. 
But  then  again  —  oh,  sword  of  Saladin,  quick,  keen,  and 
cleaving  !  —  thou  wert  a  slim  circumstance  to  this  extermi¬ 
nating  satire  ! 

My  first  emotion  on  glancing  through  this  most  meaning 
fable,  was  self-gratulation  on  my  own  happy  escape  —  not 
philanthropic  pity  for  the  poor  victimized.  I  was  like  the 
foolish  Scullion,  in  Sterne,  who,  when  she  hears  that  Master 
Bobby  is  dead,  exclaims,  ‘ So  am  not  1 !  ’ 

But  presently  came  the  reflection  that  my  being  spared 
in  this  instance  was  at  the  best  but  a  doubtful  compliment. 
That  no  wit-winged  arrows  hurtled  through  the  greenwood, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


231 


may  have  been  owing  to  there  being  no  large  game  in  its 
verdant  recesses  to  tempt  the  unerring  shaft.  Or  perhaps  it 
may  yet  be  a  little  terra  incognita  —  a  portion  of  wild  land 
in  the  wide  domain  of  literature,  yet  unexplored  by  this 
keen-eyed  archer,  as  he  merrily  goes  forth  on  his  sporting 
expeditions. 

Finally,  I  believe  that  on  the  principle  held  by  the 
majority  of  the  craft,  that  it  is  better  to  be  terribly  cut  up, 
than  terribly  let  alone,  I  will  formally  apply  to  ‘Diogenes’ 
for  a  c  proper  position,’  in  the  next  edition,  resting  my 
claims  on  my  general  popularity,  as  proved  by  my  having 
paid  taxes,  in  the  shape  of  autographs  and  locks  of  hair,  — 
and  by  the  fact  that  a  Mississippi  steamboat  and  a  Kentucky 
race-horse  bear  my  name,  —  thus  showing  that  it  has  had 
something  of  a  run.  To  be  sure,  I  see  by  the  papers  that 
my  last  mentioned  namesake  only  came  in  second  in  a  la'e 
race  ;  but  I  hope  that  this  is  not  an  ominous  circumstance. 
If  so,  I  should  like  to  know  the  name  of  the  successful 
Qompetitor  ;  —  if  4  Ho  sea  Biglow ,’  I  yield,  (for  my  equus 
cursor ,)  once  and  forever,  with  the  best  grace  in  the 
world. 

To  return  to  our  subject  —  the  right  of  my  name  to  be 
ranked  among  our  Nimrod’s  Parnassian  Game,  —  I’ve  been 
daguerreotyped  —  but,  verbum  saj ) ;  it  sure  is  not  necessary 
for  me  to  recapitulate  here  all  my  good  claims,  to  be  fused 
up  in  the  same  critical  crucible  with  all  the  great  used-up. 
Yet  if  the  time  comes  when  I ’m  fairly  in  for  it,  look  to 
hear  me  declare  I  don’t  care  a  pin  for  it.  When  a  good 
share  of  satire  descends  on  my  head,  like  a  merciless  ladle 
full  of  hot  lead,  —  see  me  smile,  as  ’twere  honey-dews 
falling  instead.  When  there  comes  a  low  growl  from 
4  Diogenes’  tub,’  to  which  the  generous  and  good-natured 
public  responds  in  a  regular  Nick  Bottom  roar,  that  wakes 
up  the  mountains  to  shout  an  encore ;  —  then  don’t  look  to 
see  me  put  on  (this  between  us)  a  martyrfied  look,  and  set 
up  for  a  genius  !  Grow  miserable,  mad,  melancholy,  mis- 


232 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


anthropic,  —  and  with  self  for  a  dread,  inexhaustible  topic, 
go  raving  out  spite,  disappointment,  and  woe,  in  such  terrible 
verse  as  the  stanzas  below  : 

i  j  have  not  loved  the  world,  nor  the  world  me’ 

I  hurl  my  bold  defiance  in  its  teeth  ! 

I  lighten  on  it  with  mine  eyes  — and  see 
I  wear  its  persecution  as  a  wreath, 

Woven  of  roses  and  gay  daffodillies  !  — 

I  feed  upon  its  hatred,  as  a  bee 
Sucks  luscious  honey  from  the  heart  of  lilies  ;  — 

What  though  I’m  cheek  by  jowl  with  misery, 

The  scourge  of  fools  and  foes  my  potent  quill  is ; 

The  while  I  sit  ’neath  cypress-glooms  and  shades  ot  weeping- 

willies  ! 

War  on  the  critics  !  war  !  shall  be  my  cry  — 

War  to  the  death  on  the  ignoble  herd  ! 

Humanity  itself  is  but  a  lie  ! 

Young  love  a  cheat,  and  faith  an  idle  word  ! 

Man’s  heart  no  more  the  pulse  of  honor  quickens  ; 

Greatness  and  genius  must  indignant  fly 
An  age  that  dotes  on  dancing-girls  and  Dickens :  — 

Jove  !  I  abjure  a  land  that  stupidly 
For  foreign  goslings  can  forsake  her  chickens ; 

And  o’erthe  things  she  calls  Reviews  my  loathing  spirit  sickens  ! 

Of  all  the  sketches  in  this  unique  jeu  cL'esprit  of 
Lowell’s,  I  think  that  of  Parker,  ‘  the  Orson  of  Parsons,’ 
the  most  strikingly  correct.  What  is  said  of  his  sermons, 
would  apply  equally  well  to  his  conversation.  He  talks 
like  an  Encyclopedia,  a  Gazetteer,  a  Directory,  and  is  all 
over  the  world  and  in  Botany  Bay  at  the  same  time.  He 
delights,  astonishes,  perplexes,  and  pumps  one.  Pie  is 
a  regular  tornado  of  talk,  a  whirlpool  of  interrogation,  a 
volcanic  irruption  of  ‘varied  information.’  It  is  amusing, 
not  to  sav  edifying,  to  watch  his  eccentric  excursions,  his 
quick,  long  leaps  from  subject  to  subject,  between  which 
there  is  no  possible,  or  at  least,  perceptible  connection.  It 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


233 


reminded  me  of  one  of  the  sick  vagaries  of  a  neighbor  of 

o  o 

ours  in  New  England.  This  man  was  very  ill  of  a  fever, 
and  becoming  delirious,  he  talked  incessantly  for  a  number 
of  days,  about  every  place,  person,  and  thing  on  earth,  in 
heaven,  or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth.  At  length,  nature 
gave  way,  he  became  utterly  exhausted,  his  voice  grew 
hoarse,  then  sank  to  a  whisper,  then  failed  entirely.  The 
poor  man  lay  perfectly  quiet,  in  a  sort  of  4  waking  swoon,’ 
and  his  friends  hoped  that  for  a  while  he  had  4  ceased  from 
his  labors,’  and  would  fall  into  a  refreshing  sleep.  But 
suddenly  he  sprang  up,  and  exclaimed  with  much  excite¬ 
ment,  in  a  restored  voice,  4  Aha  !  there  are  two  things  I 
forgot  to  mention —  Tubal- Cain,  and  Captain  Trumbull’s 
old  mill !  ’ 

By  the  way,  this  satire  is  far  from  complete.  The  author 
shows  either  great  kindness,  or  great  contempt  for  4  The 
Female  Poets  of  America,’  as  they  are  only  represented  by 
two  —  Mrs.  Child,  and  the  great  unnamed,  Apollo’s  especial 
aversion.  Pray  are  Griswold’s  entire  flock  of  4  Swans  ’  to 
come  in  one  by  one,  in  after  editions  ?  Heaven  help  the 
poet,  then  !  for  while  Griswold,  that  grand  discoverer  of 
poetesses,  lives  and  compiles,  his  critical  rhymes  must 
ceaselessly  flow  on,  and  his  poor,  jaded  Pegasus  eternally 
go  on  !  Nor  may  the  vision  of  readers  by  monotony  sad¬ 
dened,  by  the  blest  sight  of  4  finis  ’  e’er  hope  to  be  gladdened, 
as  were  the  weary  eyes  of  4  the  world-seeking  Genoese,’ 
when  the  light  the  Indian  bore,  flashed  o’er  the  midnight 
seas. 

What  an  4  infinite  variety  ’  from  the  poet’s  own  nature 
is  comprehended  in  this  little  volume.  With  all  its  wit 
and  satire,  wild  and  careless  yet  delicious  humor,  what  a 
brave,  independent,  and  admirable  spirit  it  reveals.  It  has 
some  most  felicitous  images,  some  magnificent  lines,  some 
thoughts  throbbing  with  inspiration  and  deserving  of  immor¬ 
tality,  some  passages  worthy  of  Lowell ,  in  his  highest  and 
best  moods  ;  what  can  I  say  more  !  Adieu. 

20* 


234 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


LETTER  Y. 

I  believe  that  in  the  world  of  letters,  heart,  the  feminine 
spirit  of  man’s  nature,  is  to  be  exalted  to  the  throne  of 
intellect,  and  they  are  to  reign  together.  Now  can  I  see, 
with  the  clear  eye  of  reason,  not  the  dreaming  vision  of 
enthusiasm,  the  dawning  of  the  day  of  the  second  birth  of 
poetry  —  the  sabbath  of  truth  and  of  nature.  Cannot  you, 
cannot  all,  perceive  a  change,  gradually,  but  surely  coming 
over  the  spirit  and  tone  of  polite  literature  ?  It  is  no  longer 
enough  that  a  poet  has  imagination,  fancy,  and  passion  ;  he 
must  possess  a  genial  philosophy,  an  unselfish  sympathy,  a 
cheerful  humanity,  in  short,  heart.  And  not  a  heart  like  a 
walled-up  well,  undisturbed,  and  holding  fast  its  own,  till 
some  thirsty  mortal,  with  toil  and  pains,  draws  up  a  draught 
for  his  fevered  lip  ;  but  as  a  laughing,  leaping  fountain, 
flinging  its  living  waters  far  and  wide,  creating  to  itself  an 
atmosphere  of  freshness,  and  making  beauty  and  melody  its 
surroundings.  The  world  will  tolerate  no  longer  an  ano- 
gant  disbelief  in  its  most  cherished  and  sacred  truths.  It 
will  waste  no  more  of  its  admiring  sympathy  on  the  egotism 
of  misanthropy,  or  the  childishness  of  a  sickly  sentimen¬ 
tality  :  its  poets  must  look  up  to  heaven  in  faith,  on  the 
earth  in  love,  and  revel  in  the  rich  joy  of  existence.  They 
must  beguile  us  of  our  sorrows,  and  lighten  us  of  our  cares  ; 
must  turn  to  us  the  sunny  side  of  nature,  and  point  us  to 
the  rainbows  amid  the  storms  of  life  ;  and  they  must  no 
longer  dare  to  wed  vice  to  poetry  —  a  lost  spirit  to  a  child  of 

light. 

Poets  there  now  are,  who  receive  the  divine  faculty  of 
song,  proudly,  yet  meekly,  as  at  once  the  most  glorious,  and 
the  most  fearful  gift  of  Heaven  ;  and  who  with  harps,  whose 
strains  might  rouse  a  nation  to  battle,  or  enchant  the  world 
with  the  voluptuous  breathings  of  passion,  are  content  to 


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235 


draw  from  their  chords  the  ‘  low  sad  music  of  humanity,’ 
to  tune  them  to  the  every-day  loves,  the  joys  and  sorrows 
of  the  poor  and  the  humble. 

1  have  often  fancied  I  could  imagine  the  rapturous  pleas¬ 
ure  which  must  leap  through  the  poet’s  heart,  as  the  humble 
name  he  sent  forth  to  the  world  is  returned  to  him  in  a 
thousand  voices.  And  there  are  many,  who,  in  contem¬ 
plating  a  poet,  can  understand  something  of  the  joy  of 
inspiration,  when  a  beautiful  imagining  gleams  on  his  mind 
like  a  smile  out  of  Paradise,  and  a  thought  of  divine  sub¬ 
limity  comes  to  his  soul  like  a  whisper  from  God  !  But 
none,  save  himself,  can  know  the  unutterable  joy  of  ap¬ 
proving,  the  glory  of  being  able,  when  the  delirium  of 
inspiration  is  past,  to  look  on  what  he  has  written,  with  a 
smile  in  the  eye  of  his  soul.  When  from  the  chaos  of 
inanimate  dreams,  and  unarranged  thought,  a  grand  and 
glorious  work  bursts  into  life,  and  form,  and  beauty,  and 
wheels  like  a  young  world  into  its  orbit  of  immortality, 
sister  spheres  may  welcome  it  to  being,  and  the  morning 
stars  in  the  universe  of  mind,  sing  together;  but  the  heaven 
of  rapture,  the  glory  of  glories,  is  1 6  him,  who  can  look  on 
this,  the  handiwork  of  his  spirit,  and  say,  ‘  it  is  good.’ 

***** 

I  believe  the  world  less  lacks  goodness  than  faith  in  it. 
One  suspicious  nature  makes  thousands ;  then  let  us  reverse 
the  play  of  children,  who  ‘make  believe’  they  are  men 
and  women,  and  ‘make  believe’  we  are  children,  loving 
and  trusting  with  all  the  beautiful  abandonment  of  child¬ 
hood  ;  and  yet  it  need  not  be  with  all  its  ignorance.  The 
painting  Love  as  blind,  was  surely  a  heathen’s  idea  ;  it  has 
nothing  in  it  of  divine  revealing.  If,  in  individual  instances, 
the  warm  tide  of  affection  is  rolled  back  on  our  hearts,  it 
must  not  be  to  congeal,  but  to  find  vent  in  wider  and  deeper 
channels.  Oh,  that  mighty  and  enduring  love,  bearing  and 


236 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


forgiving  all  things,  how  like  a  strong  and  healthy  heart  it 
throbs  within  us !  But  that  sickly  and  selfish  sentiment 
that  shrinks  back  at  a  fault,  and  cavils  at  a  weakness,  whose 
faint  flutterings  could  scarce  stir  the  breast  of  an  infant, 
away  with  it ! 

Dear  reader,  were  all  the  love  that  blesses  God’s  universe 
to  be  strictly  measured  by  the  worth  of  the  object,  would  not 
the  air  around  us  be  stirred  by  the  quick  flight  of  our  guar¬ 
dian  angels?  There  are  two  classes  of  persons  who  dis¬ 
believe  in  the  existence  of  love,  pure  and  unselfish,  on  this 
earth  of  ours.  Mere  worldlings,  who  have  crushed  it  in 
its  first  upspringing,  and  those  religionists,  who  believe  it 
blooms  only  in  the  innermost  bowers  of  Paradise.  But 
strong  as  my  faith  in  its  eternal  source,  is  my  belief  that  it 
yet  lives  in  many  human  hearts,  pure  and  fresh  as  a  white 
rose-bud,  when  it  glistened  with  the  first  dew  of  the  first 
evening  in  Eden.  Now,  reader  mine,  I  have  something  to 
ask  of  you.  When  I  shall  bring  to  your  notice  again  and 
again,  this  sweet  and  adorable  sentiment,  do  not  weary  of 
it,  it  is  the  life  of  the  angels;  do  not  call  it  folly,  it  is  the 
very  wisdom  of  heaven.  Ah,  call  not  that  affectation  or 
sentimentality  which  is  my  every-day  belief,  the  alpha  and 
omega  of  my  creed,  given  in  ‘  the  words  of  truth  and 
soberness.’ 

If  there  is  any  thing  I  detest,  it  is  a  nature  cold  and  un- 
impressible,  strong  and  proud  in  goodness,  and  harsh  in 
judgment ;  squaring  all  conduct  by  certain  unvarying  rules, 
keeping  aloof  from  the  erring,  and  therefore  the  suffering ; 
one  walled  and  barred  alike  against  the  breath  of  feeling 
and  the  glow  of  passion  —  a  perfect  ice-house  of  virtue. 
One  possessing  such  a  nature,  may  be  held  by  many  a 
4  bright  and  shining  light ;  ’  but  in  his  presence  I  am  op¬ 
pressed,  I  gasp  for  air,  I  am  most  uncomfortable.  He 
might  suggest  it  was  a  proper  sense  of  my  own  unworthi¬ 
ness  ;  but  the  consciousness  of  the  presence  of  a  legion  of 
pure-eyed  angels  would  not  give  one  half  so  unpleasant  a 
sensation. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


237 


I  cannot  but  look  on  a  harmless  humorist  as  a  benefactor 
to  his  race.  Milton,  the  revered,  supporting  in  old  age, 
neglect,  poverty  and  blindness,  so  royally,  is  scarce  to  me  a 
nobler  picture  than  Thomas  Hood,  from  whose  sick  cham¬ 
ber,  for  long,  long  years,  came  no  voice  of  complaining,  no 
misanthropic  curses,  but  the  laugh  and  jest,  and  words  of 
kindly  sympathy  and  good-will :  loving  always  the  world 
in  which  he  saw  little  but  suffering ;  closing  his  eyes  peace¬ 
fully  and  cheerfully  on  life  ;  remembering  that  the  mould 
of  his  premature  grave  4  nourished  the  violet,’  and  leaving, 
at  last,  a  memory  which  is  a  smile  shining  through  a  tear. 
Adieu. 


LETTER  VI. 

As  I  was  glancing  over  a  late  paper,  I  noticed  a  fine 
poem,  on  the  concluding  4  Pilgrim’s  day,’  at  Plymouth,  with 
a  ball.  The  landing  of  the  Pilgrims  commemorated  by 
dancing,  to  the  profane  notes  of  the  viol !  How  would  the 
persecuted  Puritans  have  been  filled  with  holy  horror,  had 
such  unrighteous  proceedings  been  prophesied,  in  their  time, 
of  their  descendants !  To  be  serious,  it  seems  a  most 
unsuitable  manner  of  keeping  that  great  and  solemn  event 
in  perpetual  remembrance.  It  is  true,  the  stem  courage, 
lofty  independence  and  matchless  endurance  of  the  Pilgrim 
Fathers,  laid  the  foundation  of  our  glory  and  freedom  as  a 
nation;  but,  driven  from  the  land  of  their  birth,  from  all 
familiar  things  —  breaking  old  clinging  ties  —  landing  on 
desert  shores  —  surrounded  by  heathenism,  danger,  and 
death,  what  was  their  life  here  but  a  lengthened  martyrdom  ? 
To  what  will  this  passion  for  feasting  and  dancing,  in  honor 
of  great  days  and  great  men,  lead  us  ?  The  blood  of  the 
Protestant  martyrs  cemented  the  edifice  of  our  religious 
liberty;  are  their  glorious  and  triumphant  deaths  never  to 
be  commemorated  ?  May  we  not  expect,  one  of  these 


238 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


days,  to  meet  with  some  such  announcement  as  this,  in 
some  English  journal :  — 

4  The  anniversary  of  the  burning  of  Mr.  John  Rogers, 
at  the  stake,  was  celebrated  at  Smi4hfield,  by  a  grand 
musical  entertainment,  fireworks  and  a  ball.  The  per¬ 
formance  of  Signor  Flambeaurini  kindled  to  a  perfect  blaze 
of  enthusiasm  the  admiration  of  the  audience ;  and  the 
beautiful  farewell  ode  of  the  distinguished  martyr,  com¬ 
mencing —  “Give  ear,  my  children,  to  my  words,”  set  to 
music  for  the  occasion  by  Mr.  Russell,  was  sung  with 
rapturous  applause.  The  fireworks  went  oft  with  great 
eclat.  The  ball,  which  concluded  the  festivities,  was  a 
magnificent  affair,  but  rather  exclusive  in  its  character, 
being  principally  composed  of  the  lineal  descendants  of  the 
“nine  small  children”  who  followed  Mr.  Rogers  to  the  stake. 
The  ladies  appeared  in  flame-colored  dresses,  with  red 
ribbons  and  roses  in  their  hair ;  the  gentlemen  wore  red 
waistcoats,  and  had  their  whiskers  and  moustaches  singed. 
The  rooms  were  splendidly  decorated  with  fagots,  and 
festooned  with  pale  blue  and  white  gauze,  in  imitation  of 
wreaths  of  smoke.  The  supper,  most  appropriately,  con¬ 
sisted  chiefly  of  broiled  steaks ,  and  various  kinds  of  smoked 
and  roasted  meats.  This  unique  affair  has  created  such  a 
sensation,  that  we  understand  the  immortal  burning  itself  is 
speedily  to  be  dramatized,  by  one  of  our  most  popular 
authors.  Some  delay  has  been  caused  by  the  agitation  of 
the  long-disputed  question  concerning  the  exact  number  of 
Mr.  John  Rogers’s  children.  In  all ,  left  he  nine ,  or  ten  ? 
The  debate  became  alarmingly  hot,  nor  could  reference  to 
the  pictorial  evidence  of  the  u  Primer,”  decide  it  in  many 
minds.  It  was  at  last,  we  are  happy  to  say,  satisfactorily 
decided  by  a  boxing-match  :  the  44  nines”  were  beaten,  and 
we  have  the  pleasure  to  announce  that  ten  small  children , 
one  of  whom  has  not  yet  left  the  maternal  embrace,  will 
appear  on  the  boards,  at  the  ardently  anticipated  repre¬ 
sentation  of  this  tragedy  in  real  life.’ 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


239 


I  see  that  Prentice,  the  poet,  has  been  accusing  the 
Rev.  Dr.  Bethune  of  plagiarism,  in  that  sweet  little  conjugal 
poem  of  his,  which  every  body  knows  by  heart.  Although 
in  general,  I  consider  the  ‘  Prentice  hand  ’  as  that  of  the 
master  —  preferring  the  lays  of  the  laymen  to  those  of  his 
clerical  brother-poet,  I  can  but  acknowledge  that  the  reve¬ 
rend  gentleman  has  the  best  of  it,  in  the  little  circum¬ 
stance  of  a  prior  publication.'  Both  poems  are  certainly 
very  beautiful  ;  the  subject,  a  wife’s  various  perfections, 
being  the  most  inspiring  in  the  world  ;  and  each  writer 
seems  to  have  husbanded  his  resources  for  one  grand  effort. 
The  stanzas  are  almost  necessarily  similar — I  can  see  no 
ground  for  a  serious  charge  of  plagiarism,  on  either  side. 
Pity  if  two  poets  can’t  fish  in  the  same  waters,  without 
hooking  each  other’s  lines. 

But  the  sweetest,  most  charming,  most  exquisite  thing  of 
the  kind  in  existence,  is  the  4  Lo^e-Letter  to  my  Wife,’  of 
Mr.  S.  C.  Hall.  I  honor  that  man  —  honor  him.  His 
name  should  be  written  in  characters  of  light,  on  the  tablets 
of  every  feminine  heart  in  author-land.  I  do  not  invoke 
blessings  on  his  head  —  Heaven  will  take  care  of  its  own; 
but  I  do  say  that  he  should  have  a  gold  medal  hung  about 
his  neck  by  a  world’s-convention  of  literary  women  !  Vic¬ 
toria,  if  she  even  writes  her  own  speeches,  should  knight 
him — pension  him  —  make  all  his  household-Halls  rejoice, 
for  he  is  evidently  a  husband  after  her  own  heart. 

Adieu. 


LETTER  VII. 

I  have  been  much  interested  of  late  in  the  i Fruit,  Thorns, 
and  Flowers  ’  of  Jean  Paul  Richter.  What  reader  does  not 
feel  every  nerve  jar  and  ache  in  sympathy  with  those  of  the 
suffering  Advocate,  as  the  eternal  dusting-brush  is  whisked 
about,  in  impious  defiance  of  the  divine  presence  of  genius 


240 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


—  as  his  one  candle  and  the  flame  of  inspiration  are  prema¬ 
turely  snuffed  together,  or  the  shadow  of  a  long  wick  dims 
the  keen  point  of  his  satire,  or  as  his  terse  and  brilliant  style 
becomes  involuntarily  weakened  and  vulgarized  by  over¬ 
heard  colloquies  on  cap-making,  and  tautological  messages 
to  errand-girls. 

It  is  a  sad  picture,  that  of  Jean  Paul’s,  yet  I  think  I  could 
present  a  sadder.  That  of  a  beautiful  young  creature  with 
sunshine  on  her  brow,  and  simple  thoughts,  hopes  and  feel¬ 
ings  nested  in  her  heart — one  formed  for  love ,  not  for 
fame,  not  even  reflected  fame  —  sacrificed  in  marriage  to  a 
nervous,  exacting,  absent-minded  great  man  an  immortal 
genius,  with  a  limited  income,  and  no  ‘  faculty.’  Alas,  for 
her  is  no  bride-age  of  gaieties,  no  matron-age  of  visiting 
and  gossipping,  no  old  age  of  quiet  tea-drinking.  Hers,  a 
home  o’er  which  broods  the  deep  stillness  of  inspiration  a 
heart  growing  cold  in  the  shadow  of  greatness  a  reveren¬ 
tial  pride  taking  the  place  of  the  old  familiar  love.  It  is  hers 
to  bear  alone  the  every-day  cares  — -  to  perform  as  by  stealth 
the  necessary  household  duties  —  to  keep  the  little  ones ,  in 
an  unnatural  state  of  quietude  and  good  humor,  through  the 
most  trying  and  fretful  seasons  of  infancy,  and  it  may  be, 
without  the  aid  of  a  Tilly  Slowboy,  or  a  Baby -jumper. 

Another  picture  of  matrimonial  martyrdom,  were  that  of 
a  man  of  genius,  sensitively  and  fastidiously  organized,  with 
ever-present  ideas  of  elegance  and  order,  united  to  a  w  oman 
who,  so  far  from  being  a  Lenette,  should  possess  a  morbid 
repugnance  to  the  small  cares  of  housewifery  and  to  all  the 
bristled  aids  to  neatness,  from  the  huge  dusting-biush,  to 
those  whose  office-work  it  is  to  keep  smooth  and  glossy , 
locks  of  raven  or  gold,  and  those  formed  to  preserve  in  glit¬ 
tering  whiteness  those  ivory  portals,  through  which  pass 
alike  love’s  dainty  words,  the  song,  the  sigh,  the  vow,  cakes, 

sandwiches  and  buttered  toast. 

Such  a  man  may  mark  the  mind  of  his  wife  keeping  pace 
with  his  own ;  may  find  her  sympathizing  perfectly  in  his 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


241 


intellectual  tastes — joying  in  bis  ambition  and  glorying  in 
his  success;  but  if  be  beholds  her  indolently  presiding  over 
a  household  without  order  —  seated  in  a  disarranged  room, 
amid  whose  undusted  furniture 

‘  Secure  Arachne  spreads  her  slender  toils,  ’ — 

wearing  a  morning-gown  all  day  —  twisting  up  her  hair  with 
careless  unbecomingness  —  and  half  tending  an  infant  with 
a  soiled  pinafore,  an  unkissable  face,  then,  that  man  is 
miserable. 

Still  another,  and  even  a  darker  picture,  were  that  of  an 
intellectual  woman ,  a  sensitive,  fanciful,  passionate  Corinne, 
united  in  legality,  not  in  reality,  to  a  good,  easy,  industrious, 
every-dayish,  well-to-do  sort  of  a  man,  who  in  his  honest 
simplicity  should  offer  the  rye-bread  and  wholesome  ale  of 
his  hearty  and  homely  affection  to  her,  whose  spirit  was 
yearning  for  the  nectar  and  ambrosia  of  a  poetical  and 
romantic  attachment  —  for  a  sweet  life-rustication  amid 
primroses  and  poultry,  in  ‘  a  cottage  by  the  wood 1  —  for 
a  union  of  heart  and  soul,  charmingly  diversified  with  jealous 
love-quarrels  and  sentimental  make-ups. 

But  I  think  I  will  lay  this  last  touching  word-picture  aside, 
and  when  I  am  sufficiently  ‘  advanced,’  as  the  reformists 
say,  may  work  it  up  into  a  domestic  novel,  a  sort  of  com¬ 
panion  to  Jean  Paul’s  1  Fruit,  Thorns,  and  Flowers.’ 

October  is  now  showing  itself  in  the  splendor  of  its  attire, 
the  living  green  of  the  wide  fields  is  fast  assuming  a  hue  of 
brown — even  the  sunlight  has  a  peculiar  golden  richness 
and  ripeness,  and  the  tall  forest  tree,  donning  its  ‘  coat  of 
many  colors,’  surpasses,  in  gorgeous  apparelling,  the  most 
sumptuous  monarch  that  ever  filled  a  throne. 

Now  is  the  season  when  one  whose  life  is  hid  in  that  of 
Nature  —  one  who  owns  to  being  the  child  of  that  simple 
and  old-fashioned  mother  —  loves  most  to  be  taken  to  her 
kindly  heart,  and  to  listen  dreamily  to  its  gentle  beatings. 

91 


242 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Oh,  time  of  all  the  year,  for  a  wearied  spirit  to  pass 
resignedly  from  the  toil  and  turmoil  of  life,  to  its  appointed 
slumbers  !  We  seem  now  to  be  learning  to  die,  with  meek¬ 
ness  and  serenity ;  for  are  not  the  paling  flowers,  and  the 
changing  leaves  tranquilly  leading  our  way  to  the  silence 
and  darkness  of  death,  as  they  loose  their  frail  hold  on  life, 
and  mingle  with  the  dust  at  our  feet  ?  Should  not  the  un¬ 
questioning  humility  with  which  these  submit  to  the  decrees 
of  the  all-wise  Creator,  come  to  our  hearts  as  a  lesson  of 
deepest  import  ? 

May  not  a  simple  flower  of  the  field,  smitten  by  the  frost, 
and  bowing  its  head  meekly  to  decay,  speak  as  eloquently 
to  a  thoughtful  spirit,  as  the  sublime  death  of  a  Socrates  ? 

The  young  girl  whose  heart  is  in  heaven,  even  while  her 
feet  tread  earth’s  darkened  paths,  and  whose  lips  and  life 
acknowledge  God,  is  stricken  with  sickness,  wastes  away 
patiently,  and  at  length  closes  her  eyes  in  death,  trusting  in 
Jesus.  We  lay  her  to  repose,  on  some  sunny  May  morning, 
perchance,  and  from  the  turf  above  her,  a  violet  springs. 

Through  the  long  summer  days,  while  the  sweet  flower 
blooms,  the  form  of  beauty  beneath  crumbles  silently  into 
shapeless  dust.  But  the  winter  winds  bring  blight  to  the 
flower,  and  it  falls,  withers,  and  decays  upon  the  faded 
earth.  Yet  a  voice  shall  come,  both  to  the  violet,  and  the 
maiden  —  to  the  one  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  to  the  other, 
in  that  eternal  spring  which  shall  bloom  over  the  new  earth  ; 
a  divine  voice  saying,  4 1  am  the  Resurrection  and  the 
Life.’ 


LETTER  VIII. 

To  an  intelligent  woman  of  our  day,  I  know  of  nothing 
more'suggestive  of  happy  reflection  and  self-gratulation,  than 
the  reading  of  the  old  Spectator,  and  remarking  the  spirit 
and  bearing  of  those  articles  relating  to  woman,  as  she  was 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


243 


in  the  time  of  the  keen,  but  kindly  satirists,  Addison  and 
Steele.  It  is  our  joy,  while  perusing  the  old  volume,  now 
lying  beside  us,  often  to  pause,  and  mentally  compare  its 
Chloes,  Parthenias  and  Sophronias,  vain,  unprincipled,  frivo¬ 
lous  and  ridiculously  ignorant,  with  the  pure,  high-spirited, 
large-hearted,  intellectual  women,  which  every  social  circle 
now  can  boast. 

Let  us  imagine  the  grave  Spectator,  suddenly  awaking 
from  his  long  sleep  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and  making  his 
startling  appearance  in  London  literary  circles,  accompanied 
by  his  gay  companion,  Will  Honeycomb  ! 

Imagine  his  pleasurable  surprise,  at  noting  among  the 
feminines,  the  absence  of  hoops,  powder,  high-heels  and 
patches,  with  the  simper,  the  lisp,  the  mincing  gait  —  of  all 
those  silly  affectations  at  which  he  once  incessantly  aimed 
the  iceen  shafts  of  his  ridicule.  Fancy  his  astonishment, 
at  being  presented  to  Mrs.  Somerville,  the  great  astronomer, 
to  Miss  Edgeworth,  the  novelist,  Joanna  Baillie,  the  drama¬ 
tist,  and  to  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning,  the  lofty  poet  and 
classical  scholar  !  And  then,  think  of  Will  Honeycomb,  as 
attempting  to  get  up  a  flirtation  with  Mary  Howitt,  or  as 
pouring  his  soft  flatteries  into  the  ear  (trumpet)  of  Harriet 
Martineau ! 

Without  noisy  discussion  of  what  are  termed  ‘  women’s 
rights,’  without  treason  and  without  Quixotism,  we  may 
daily  take  heart,  and  congratulate  one  another,  that  the  day 
of  our  emancipation  from  many  of  the  evils  and  follies 
formerly  considered  inseparable  from  our  condition,  has 
dawned  brightly  and  cheerily  ;  and  Heaven  grant  that  we 
may  many  of  us  live  to  behold  its  golden  meridian.  We, 
the  women  of  this  age,  have  much,  very  much  to  do, 
and  that  without  going  distinctly  beyond  the  narrow  and 
jealously  guarded  4  sphere  of  woman.’  Womanhood  must 
be  exalted,  not  beyond  itself,  but  to  the  full  exercise  and 
expansion  of  its  high  and  glorious  capabilities.  It  has 
been  falsely  said,  that  poets  have  idealized  woman.  It  is 


244 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


not  in  the  soul  of  man  to  more  than  realize  her  in  the 
perfect  development  of  her  great  and  beautiful  nature.  Full 
justice  has  been  done  to  woman’s  loveliness,  her  power  of 
adaptation  and  appreciation,  her  tenderness,  patience  and 
devotion ;  but  the  world  has  not  yet  fully  recognised  her 
moral  power  and  sublime  energy.  It  is  true  that  these,  in 
the  great  mass  of  the  sex,  remain  inert  under  a  weight  of 
frivolity,  prejudice,  timidity  and  discouragement;  but  they 
have  been  gloriously  revealed  in  individual  existences. 
Many  women  of  this  age  are  advocating  with  impas¬ 
sioned  eloquence  a  freer  and  higher  development  of  wo¬ 
manhood,  and  though  some  of  these  may  take  strange 
and  startling  ways  of  bringing  about  the  ‘  consummation 
devoutly  to  be  wished,’  —  though  they  fling  themselves  more 
energetically  than  gracefully  into  the  arena,  —  yet  in  all 
this  they  reveal  the  apostolic  spirit,  the  boldness  of  sincere 
champions,  and  thank  Heaven  for  the  token  !  Though  a 
kind  of  frenzy  may  possess  them  with  the  consciousness  of 
wrongs,  peace  and  serenity  may  come  with  the  restoration 
of  rights.  The  voices,  wild  and  discordant  in  sounding  the 
battle-cry,  may  become  gentle  and  silver-toned  in  chanting 
triumph-lays. 

Heaven  bless  and  strengthen  every  high-hearted  and 
pure-minded  woman,  who  by  her  life  proves  to  the  world 
‘  of  little  faith,’  that  we  may  attain  to  an  existence  higher 
and  worthier  than  that  of  household  drudgery,  or  ball-room 
frivolity,  without  sacrificing  the  domestic  virtues,  and  with¬ 
out  losing  all  grace  and  attractiveness ;  that  we  may  have 
nobler  aims  than  conquest-making  and  fortune-hunting,  and 
purer,  dearer,  and  more  glorious  hopes  than  fashion,  posi¬ 
tion  and  success  in  society  can  satisfy. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


245 


LETTER  IX. 

Philadelphia,  May  10,  1848. 

Dear  M  .  So  here  you  see  I  am  back  again  to  the 
heat,  and  dust,  and  turmoil  of  the  city  ;  to  the  patrician 
elegance,  the  plebeian  pretension,  and  the  pitiable  poverty 
which  throng  its  right-angled  streets;  to  the  whirl  of  aris¬ 
tocratic  equipages  and  the  lumbering  of  drays,  the  rush  of 
engines  and  the  crush  of  ’busses. 

The  glorious  week  of  which  I  had  such  glowing  anticipa¬ 
tions  when  I  last  wrote  you,  has  indeed  passed,  flown  by, 
vanished,  taken  tracks,  and  gone  to  join  the  weeks  before  the 
flood.  Ah,  we  had  a  merry,  a  refreshing,  a  luxurious  time 
of  vagabondizing,’  as  Consuelo  would  say,  and  we  all  of  us 
turned  our  faces  city- ward  most  reluctantly,  though  with  the 
feeling  that  we  bore  back  with  us  a  new  lease  of  life.  Our 

party  consisted  of  the  young  poets,  J.  B.  T - ,  and  T.  B. 

R\ - >  the  lovely  and  light-hearted  Mrs.  R - ,  with  her 

fairy  Alice,  and  your  own  wild  western  child,  who,  it  must 
be  confessed,  scarcely  behaved  as  though  her  mother  was 
aware  of  her  absence  from  the  paternal  domicile.  The  two 
first  were  brilliant  and  fearlessly  natural  from  the  necessity 
of  their  poetical  organizations,  and  the  rest  of  us  mirthful 
from  the  influences  of  the  joyous  season,  and  the  exuberance 
of  pure,  thoughtless,  jubilant  and  nonsensical  fun.  We  threw 
aside  etiquette,  proper  ways  of  talking  and  walking,  sun¬ 
shades  and  gloves,  and  gained  a  sense  of  freedom,  a  spring¬ 
ing  step,  and  alas,  a  ‘  complexion,  the  shadowed  livery  of  the 
burnished  sun.’ 

The  home  of  my  friend,  the  distinguished  young  poet,  and 
prince  of  pedestrians,  is  pleasantly  situated  in  the  midst  of  a 
country  most  beautiful  by  nature,  and  in  a  fine  state  of  culti¬ 
vation.  But  the  people  of  K - are  its  greatest  attraction. 

They  are  social  in  character,  intelligent,  independent,  large- 
hearted,  kindly  and  courteous”.  Such  are  the  people  who 

constitute  the  true  life  of  our  country— its  honor,  its  strength, 

21*  * 


246 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


its  free,  unconquerable,  incorruptible  spirit.  Let  city  aris¬ 
tocracies  oppress  with  extortions,  and  waste  in  extravagant 
display  as  they  will ;  let  political  parties  go  as  madly  wrong 
as  they  dare  ;  our  land  must  still  be  prosperous  and  great 
while  its  country-people  are  what  they  are. 

My  first  visit  to  the  woods  during  this  rustication  I  shall 

not  soon  forget.  Why,  dear  M - ,  there  I  found  the  sweet 

4  spring-beauty,’  ( Claytonia  Virginica ,)  the  first  that  I  had 
seen  since  we  left  F - ,  long,  long  ago,  is  it  not? 

It  filled  my  eyes  with  tears  to  look  once  again  on  those 
little  modest  flowers.  The  first  that  I  gathered  I  pressed  to 
my  lips  and  heart  with  indescribable  emotion.  They  alone 
made  the  woods  about  look  so  like  the  beautiful  woods  of 
Onondaga,  that  I  involuntarily  glanced  around  for  some 
encampment  of  our  old  friends  the  Indians,  and  felt  a  sud¬ 
den  inclination  to  resume  my  lessons  in  archery,  with  the  old 
* 

chief,  who,  malgre  his  royal  greatness,  condescended  to  ex¬ 
ercise  his  elegant  accomplishment  for  our  amusement,  and 
the  sake  of  the  penny,  set  up  for  a  mark.  Well,  it  were 
better  to  be  a  penny-archer,  than  a  sovereign  target. 

When  we  had  passed  through  the  wood  that  day,  we  came 
upon  as  lovely  a  meadow  as  one  would  wish  to  see,  where 
nature’s  rich,  green  carpet  was  flowered  with  violets,  dande¬ 
lions  and  strawberry-blossoms,  and  tacked  down  with  little 
blue  Houstonias. 

We  followed  up  a  small  clear  trout  stream  to  a  pond 
formed  by  a  mill-dam,  the  usual  fishing  station.  Here  we 
paused,  and  selecting  our  several  positions,  4  cast  our  lines 
in  pleasant  places.’  It  was  for  all  the  world  just  such  a  pond 

as  the  one  you  will  remember  upon  our  farm  at  F - ,  in 

which  I  caught  my  first  4  shiner,’  and  a  ducking.  There 
were  the  same  old  familiar  water-shrubs  and  plants  along 
these  banks.  How  the  spear- mint  penetrated  my  bosom  !  — 
how  a  host  of  glittering  by-gone  days  defiled  before  me  at 
the  first  waving  of  those  flags  !  —  how  all  my  childhood 
came  back  upon  me  with  a  rush. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


247 


In  fishing,  I  did  not  have  as  good  success  as  I  have  some¬ 
times  had,  the  perverse  trout  all  thronged  to  Mrs.  R - ’s 

hook  ;  I  could  not  worm  myself  into  their  confidence.  My 
poet-friends  were  more  successful  ;  the  silly  fish,  suspecting 
nothing  from  the  drift  of  their  lines,  were  speedily  drawn 
out,  in  spite  of  the  proverbial  shyness  of  trout-nature.  The 
next  day  we  were  all  more  fortunate,  and  returned  home 
better  satisfied  with  ourselves  and  the  good-natured  fish  who 
obligingly  allowed  themselves  to  be  caught. 

We  had  also  much  enjoyment  and  excitement  in  riding. 
For  me  a  beautiful  horse  was  kindly  provided  —  one  as 
spirited  as  Mars,  and  as  fleet-footed  as  Mercury. 

One  afternoon,  while  visiting  with  some  new  friends,  an 
impromptu  ride  was  got  up.  My  habit,  cap,  and  such  regi¬ 
mentals,  were  some  miles  away ;  but  a  dress  was  furnished 
me,  and  I  had  the  honor  of  wearing  that  same,  identical, 
low-crowned,  broad-brimmed  hat  which  made  the  tour 
of  Europe  on  foot.  As  well  as  I  can  recollect,  I  neither 
dreamed  of  the  Mediterranean,  nor  Maccaroni,  the  Hartz 
Mountains,  nor  good  Rhenish  wine  ;  but  the  hat  was  becom¬ 
ing,  very. 

In  our  evenings,  we  had  dance  and  song,  laugh,  jest  and 
mirthful  story  ;  in  short,  all  manner  of  pleasant  and  inno¬ 
cent  merry-making. 

After  all,  dear  M - ,  we  returned  stronger  and  healthier 

both  in  the  physique  and  the  spiritual ;  lighter-hearted, 
clearer-eyed,  and  smoother-browed  ;  more  in  love  with  this 
good  old  world  of  ours,  more  in  harmony  with  nature,  and 
not  we  trust  1  farther  off  from  heaven  ’  than  when  we  went. 
And  was  it  not  well  for  us  thus  to  revel  awhile  in  the  fresh, 
invigorating  atmosphere  of  true  social  freedom  ;  to  drink 
again  at  the  fountain  of  sparkling  and  spontaneous  joyous¬ 
ness,  both  of  which  can  only  be  found  in  country-life,  at 

this  blooming  and  glowing  season  ?  Ah  !  my  beloved  M - , 

I  almost  fear  that  mere  existence  is  becoming  too  dear  to 
me  ;  yet  this  I  know,  while  thou  art  left  to  me,  it  cannot 
become  less  dear,  less  beautiful  and  blessed. 


248 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Good  night !  may  Heaven’s  protection  be  over  my  home 
and  round  about  its  inmates  ! 


'  LETTER  X. 

TO  T1IE  EDITOR  OF  THE  NATIONAL  ERA. 

* 

New  Brighton,  Pa.,  July  5,  1849. 

Dear  Sir,  —  I  received  your  note  last  night,  and  resolved 
to  write  to  you  this  morning.  But,  after  breakfast,  happen¬ 
ing  to  stroll  into  my  little  flower-patch,  I  was  struck  by  the 
cool,  impudent,  well-to-do  look  of  the  weeds,  which,  malgre 
all  my  care,  are  fast  putting  down  my  poor,  little,  faint¬ 
hearted  annuals.  The  practical  free  soilers  —  the  invaders 
—  the  squatters!  My  blood  was  up  at  once,  and  I  was  down 
upon  them,  urging  a  war  of  utter  extermination. 

When  my  work  was  done,  my  victory  complete,  and  the 
narrow  alleys  strewn  and  piled  up  with  heaps  of  the  slain, 
the  sun  was  high,  and  I,  wearied  and  heated,  felt  particu¬ 
larly  indisposed  to  further  exertion  of  any  kind.  The  im¬ 
pulse  for  writing  had  evaporated  with  the  dew.  So  you  will 
not  expect  much  of  spontaneity  or  animation,  in  what  I  write, 
not  perhaps  because  I  must ,  but  because  I  ivill. 

4  How  did  you  spend  the  Fourth  ?  ’  will  be  this  year  a 
question  rather  difficult  for  me  to  answer.  I  believe  I  sewed 
very  diligently  all  the  morning  ;  in  the  afternoon  lounged 
about,  and  read  Lamartine  ;  and  in  the  evening  took  a  stroll 
through  our  beautiful  village. 

And  this  was  the  extent  of  my  glorification.  As  far  as 
patriotism  and  amusement  were  concerned,  it  might  have 
been  any  other  day,  for  me.  But  others,  even  in  our  quiet 
place,  were  not  so  ready  to  waive  their  peculiar  republican 
privileges.  Men  of  leisure,  lads  of  spirit,  and  multitudinous 
little  boys,  made  the  day  unendurable  and  the  4  night  hide¬ 
ous,’  by  the  incessant  discharge  of  various  sharp-toned 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


249 


swivels,  (great  bores,  though  of  small  caliber)- — by  patriot¬ 
ism  popping  off  in  fire-crackers,  and  blazing  in  Roman 
candles  —  by  the  glad  tidings  of  independence  sung  and 
shouted  along  the  streets,  and  reeled  off  like  a  sailor’s  yarn 
on  the  village  green. 

T  suppose  you  had  ‘  great  doings’  at  the  capital,  on  this 
4  Sabbath  of  the  Free.’  With  the  cannon’s  brazen  mouth, 
calling  on  the  drowsy  night  to  rejoice,  and  proclaiming  liberty 
throughout  the  day  —  the  waving  of  innumerable  banners  — 
the  flash  and  glitter  and  clang  of  arms  —  the  nodding  of 
plumes  —  the  prancing  of  steeds  —  the  dinners  !  the  songs, 
the  toasts,  the  pleasant  clink  of  glasses  —  the  odes,  the  ora¬ 
tions —  all  the  glorification  and  jollification,  the  roar  and 
uproar  of  patriotism  broke  loose,  with  its 

‘  Riddle  raddle,  fiddle  faddle,  bang,  bang,  bang  !  ’ 

I  have  noticed  that  foreigners  often  seem  to  enjoy  this 
holiday  even  more  than  the  native  Americans,  and  to  feel 
more  of  its  pride  and  exultation.  A  friend  of  ours  requested 
an  Irish  lad  in  his  employ  to  finish  a  certain  piece  of  work. 
The  boy  demurred  —  the  gentleman  insisted.  4  No,  sir,’ 
said  the  young  republican,  4 1  don’t  intind  to  lift  a  hoe  the 
day ;  I’m  in  a  free  country,  and  Tm  able  to  support,  it .’ 

Apropos  of  this  rich  feeling  of  independence :  I  was 
lately  amused  with  a  reply  made  by  a  colored  woman,  who 
formerly  was  a  slave,  but  is  now  living  with  a  neighbor  of 
ours,  to  the  presiding  genius  of  our  kitchen  department,  an 
Irish  girl.  Said  the  latter,  4  Here ’s  a  cloak  belongs  to  your 
master —  will  ye  tak  it  wi’  ye  ?  ’  4  My  master  !  ’  exclaimed 

the  other,  with  an  independent  toss  of  the  head,  4 1  haint  got 
no  master —  ’cept  one,  and  he’s  above,  just  at  present .’ 

But  how  I  am  running  on  ! 

I  mentioned  having  been  reading  Lamartine.  I  have 
finished  4  Raphael,’  and  am  almost  through  the  4 Memoir es. ’ 
Need  I  say  that  I  am  enchanted  with  both.  The  ‘Raphael’ 
is  a  pure  love-poem  in  the  form  of  prose,  indeed,  but  a  poem 


250 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


in  essence.  Some  think  its  story  an  exaggeration,  if  not  an 
utter  impossibility.  I  do  not  so  esteem  it.  It  is  the  ideal 
of  a  pure,  unselfish  love,  with  the  depth  and  eternity  of  a 
great  passion,  without  sensuality  and  without  satiety.  Its 
glow  and  strength  and  glory  are  not  borrowed  from  poetry, 
but  are  of  its  own  nature,  where  it  existed  in  all  its  intensity 
and  infinity  in  the  spirit  of  genius.  Every  true  poet  pos¬ 
sesses  a  realm  of  perpetual  summer,  of  more  than  tropical 
bloom  and  luxuriance,  in  his  own  being  —  an  Italy  of  the 
soul ;  and  this  is  only  thrown  open  to  us,  truthfully  revealed 
in  Raphael. 

But  this  work  impresses  the  sensibilities  and  captivates 
the  imagination  —  the  ‘ Memoires  ’  come  home  to  the  heart. 
We  there  love,  we  enjoy,  we  feel  intensely  the  artless  ways, 
the  innocent  pleasures,  the  touching  trials  of  childhood  — 
we  are  carried  back  to  that  fresh,  glowing  season  —  we 
live  in  it  again,  with  all  its  tenderness  and  truth,  its  laughter 
and  tears,  its  harmony  with  nature,  and  its  nearness  to 
God. 

It  is  curious  to  remark  how  Lamartine  has  made  this 
entire  work  little  more  than  a  grand  memorial,  an  immortal¬ 
ization,  an  apotheosis  of  his  adored  mother. 

And  to  me  it  seems  that  it  is  this  sentiment  of  filial  piety, 
this  first,  purest,  holiest  flower  of  the  heart,  yet  fresh  with 
its  morning  dew,  yet  sweet  with  its  early  fragrance,  yet 
unwithered  by  the  noon-tide  blaze  of  fame,  and  unblighted 
by  the  cares  of  the  world  or  the  frosts  of  time  —  which, 
more  than  his  genius  or  his  patriotism,  constitutes  the  pecu¬ 
liar  beauty  and  glory  of  Lamartine’s  character. 

To  the  benign  influence  of  his  mother,  and  to  his  having 
breathed  such  an  atmosphere  of  tenderness  in  his  childhood, 
we  may  ascribe  not  only  the  piety  of  this  noble  poet,  but  the 
strong  infusion  of  the  woman  observable  in  his  nature. 

But  it  is  of  the  high-souled,  the  heroic,  the  Christian 
woman  —  one  not  wrapt  in  visions,  and  revelations,  and 
ecstacies  —  walking  on  clouds  and  gazing  longingly  toward 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


251 


heaven  —  but  one  whose  heaven  is  within  and  around  her 
—  looking  from  her  eyes,  breathing  from  her  lips,  eloquent 
in  her  life,  and  triumphant  in  her  faith. 

Again,  I  say,  how  beautiful  is  Lamartine’s  love  for  his 
mother !  More  beautiful  even  in  its  heart-warmth,  its  ten¬ 
der,  impassioned  worship,  than  that  deep  love  which  prevailed 
with  the  stern  Roman,  against  the  hot  sense  of  wrong,  and 
‘allayed  his  rages  and  revenges,’  when  the  noble  Volumnia 
prayed. 

How  striking  and  complete  is  the  contrast  between  Lam¬ 
artine  and  Byron,  and  how  much  of  this  difference  may 
have  been  owing  to  early  domestic  influences. 

‘  Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,’  the  one  might  say; 
the  other  would  probably  have  substituted  quite  another 
word  for  the  4  heaven.’  Byron,  almost  from  the  first,  was 
shut  out  from  the  love  and  holiness  of  the  divine  life 
which  is  the  native  home  of  the  spirit ;  but  Lamartine  was 
ever  drawn  toward  it,  bound  to  it  as  with  golden  chains,  by 
the  gentle  piety  and  angelic  tenderness  of  that  pure,  mater¬ 
nal  heart.  Her  faith  has  been  the  anchor  of  his  soul  —  her 
memory  is  as  a  shape  of  hope  and  peace,  which  ever  sits 
smiling  at  the  helm  of  his  life-barque  ;  but  Byron  floated 
forth  alone,  on  a  wild,  unfriendly  sea,  with  no  4  sweet  spirit’ 
to  cheer  and  console,  and  no  hand  to  save,  when  the  storm 
came  down,  and  the  deep  waters  passed  over  him. 

Byron’s  mother!  —  what  arms  were  hers  to  receive  the 
mortal  incarnation  of  that  beautiful  and  terrible  genius  — 
what  a  bosom  was  hers  to  pillow  that  head,  moulded  like  a 
Grecian  god’s,  but  destined  to  be  crowned  with  a  grander 
immortality  —  what  a  spirit  to  guide  that  passion-freighted 
heart,  that  will  of  iron  and  that  soul  of  fire  !  What  wonder 
that  the  sunlight  of  love  shone  but  faintly  and  at  intervals  on 
that  troubled  life.  The  morning  was  darkened,  the  hot 
noon  soon  overcast,  and  the  night  closed  in  early,  with 
gloom  and  tempest. 

The  flippant  and  ungenerous  manner  in  which  Byrqn 


252 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


spoke  of  Lamartine,  in  one  of  his  conversations  with  Lady 
Blessington,  I  have  always  thought  a  reproach  to  his  memo¬ 
ry  and  his  heart.  The  ode  to  himself,  on  which  he  vents 
his  spleen  in  small  criticisms,  is  a  noble  poem,  which  he 
must  have  felt  and  profited  by,  had  he  not  been  clad  in 
the  triple  mail  of  pride,  egotism,  and  defiant  misanthropy.  . 

Apropos  of  egotism,  it  is  objected  to  Lamartine  that  he  is 
marked  by  this  fault.  It  is  true  that  his  just  and  liberal 
estimation  of  his  own  fine  points  of  person  and  character,  is 
often  shown  with  a  good  deal  of  naivete.  But  in  this  he  is 
more  than  equalled  by  the  sublime  Madame  Roland,  who 
dwelt  on  her  own  mental  gifts  and  personal  beauties  with  a 
generous  enthusiasm  really  charming.  I  think  this  a  pecu¬ 
liarity  of  French  genius  —  Madame  de  Stael  is  another 
example. 

Lately,  in  travelling,  I  remarked  a  lady  reading  ‘  Raphael,’ 
and  seemingly  with  deep  interest.  But  on  finishing  it,  she 
took  up  and  read  with  as  much  apparent  satisfaction,  a 
miserable  Mexican  war  story,  with  diabolical  wood  cuts,  and 
some  such  title  as  ‘  The  Knight  of  the  White  Feather,’  or 
‘The  Hero  of  the  Bloody  Jack  Knife.’  She  evidently  read 
for  the  sake  of  the  story  alone.  But  some  people  seem  to 
have  a  sort  of  love  for  the  beautiful,  existing  with  propen¬ 
sities  for  the  commonplace  and  the  low ;  as  cattle  devour 
roses  and  cabbages  with  the  same  coarse  relish.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XI. 

Niagara  Falls,  July  29,  1849. 

*  *  *  *  *  *  * 

We  landed  at  Chippewa  —  stopped  a  few  moments  at  the 

Clifton  House — then  passed  on  to  Table  Rock. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  heavenly  days  that  ever  strayed 
out  of  Paradise;  and,  though  this  was  my  third  visit  to  the 
Falls,  it  seemed  like  a  first  view,  so  illumined  and  gloiified 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


253 


were  they  by  that  splendid  summer  sunlight  —  the  sunlight 
which  falls  as  softly  and  as  lovingly  upon  those  fearful 
rapids,  and  into  that  tremendous  chasm,  as  on  the  small 
waves  of  a  gliding  rivulet,  or  down  into  the  still  bosom  of 
a  fairy  lake,  sleeping  amid  the  shelter  of  hills,  in  the 
quietude  of  the  wild. 

And  now,  how  shall  I  ‘  wreak  my  thought  upon  expres¬ 
sion  !  ’  How  reduce  to  visible  form,  how  compress  into 
words,  the  wild,  tumultuous,  infinite  emotions  of  my  soul? 
I  will  not  make  the  vain  attempt.  I  will  leave  my  thoughts 
to  their  chaotic  state — leave  the  elements  at  work,  with 
their  surging,  and  murmuring,  and  fitful  gleaming,  to  pro¬ 
duce  forms  of  beauty  and  grandeur  hereafter  — perhaps. 

Our  first  expedition  was  to  Termination  Rock,  behind 
the  sheet.  We  were  conducted  by  the  polite  and  pleasant 
colored  guide,  Henry,  whom  I  would  recommend  in  pref¬ 
erence  to  all  others.  To  really  see  the  Falls,  and  feel  one’s 
soul  shaken  by  their  grand  idea,  one  must  see  them  from 
Termination  Rock,  looking  up.  The  place  seemed  to  me 
the  solemn  inner  temple  of  the  might  and  majesty  of  God  ; 
where  the  anthem  of  winds  and  waves  causes  earth  to  trem¬ 
ble  as  it  goes  up  to  heaven  in  an  eternal  column  of  sound. 
Never  was  I  conscious  of  such  exaltation  yet  humility  of 
spirit:  as  the  spray  fell  fast  on  my  upturned  brow,  it  seemed 
like  the  baptism  of  our  holy  universal  faith  ;  like  the  floods, 
swept  over  my  soul  thoughts  of  the  immortal,  the  infinite, 
the  divine,  and  amid  the  deeps  I  could  only  cry,  ‘Great 
God  and  Creator  !  from  everlasting  to  everlasting  Thou 
art !  ’ 

I  cannot  understand  how  any  one  can  leave  the  Falls 
without  going  behind  the  veil,  and  there  beholding  nature’s 
fearful  mysteries.  The  hour  of  my  initiation  was  certainly 
the  grandest  of  my  life.  Would  that  I  had  it  to  live  over 
again  —  the  hour  when  in  my  spirit,  as  above  and  below 
me,  ‘  deep  was  calling  unto  deep  ’ —  when  my  life  ran 
strong  and  fast,  like  the  torrent  at  my  side. 

22 


254 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


In  the  afternoon,  we  took  a  carriage  for  the  Suspension 
Bridge,  the  Burning  Spring,  and  Lundy’s  Lane.  The  bridge 
far  surpassed  my  expectations  ;  I  had  no  idea  of  any  thing 
so  light,  so  almost  fairy-like  in  effect,  and  yet,  on  a  nearer 
view,  giving  one  the  idea  of  perfect  strength  and  security. 
Of  the  Burning  Spring  I  am  also  happy  to  express  my  en¬ 
tire  approbation. 

In  general,  I  have  little  enthusiasm  for  battle-fields  —  I 
never  would  go  far  out  of  my  way  to  visit  one  of  those 
human  slaughter-grounds  :  but  Lundy’s  Lane  was  a  splen¬ 
didly  fought  battle,  with  the  grandest  possible  surroundings 
and  accompaniments,  and  I  could  not  look  on  the  scene 
without  profound  emotion.  As  I  stood  on  that  turf  once 
bedewed  with  the  blood  of  brave  soldiers,  and  leaned  against 
old  trees  whose  green  young  hearts  were  pierced  with  balls 
on  that  day,  and  who  yet  bear  their  scars  like  gallant  vete¬ 
rans,  all  became  changed  about  me  —  the  wild  scene  was 
alive,  tumultuous  with  combatants  —  the  roar  of  cannon  and 
musketry  drowns  the  roar  of  the  near  cataract  —  now  sounds 
a  charge,  now  beats  a  retreat  —  now  goes  down  a  banner  — 
now  dashes  past  a  steed,  riderless  and  frantic  —  and  the 
flash  of  swords,  the  clang  of  bayonets,  the  shout  of  foe 
meeting  foe,  the  deep  groans  and  sharp  cries  of  the  fallen  — 
the  din  and  rush  and  smoke  and  storm  of  the  battle  are 
every  where. 

I  seem  to  see  the  gallant  Ripley  point  to  the  enemy’s 
guns,  and  say  to  Miller,  4  Can  you  take  that  battery  ?  ’  and  to 
hear  the  hero’s  simple  Spartan  reply,  4 1  will  try ,  sir.’ 

I  seem  to  watch  the  fierce  and  changing  tide  of  battle, 
till  night  comes  on,  and  the  moon  looks  from  her  place  in 
heaven,  as  in  soft  reproof  and  gentle  pity  on  the  mournful 
and  terrible  scene. 

It  was  most  sad  to  stand  in  the  old  church-yard,  by  the 
graves  of  the  fallen  officers  —  4  the  fresh,  young  captains,’ 
whom  their  comrades  let  down  to  their  low  beds,  where 
they  laid  with  their  right  hands  stretched  cold  and  nerveless 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


255 


at  their  sides,  and  where  their  fiery  hearts  have  crumbled 
into  dust. 

After  our  return  from  the  battle-ground,  we  crossed  the 
river,  and  put  up  at  the  Cataract  House. 

My  room  opened  on  to  a  piazza,  looking  out  on  the  river, 
and  I  spend  half  my  nights  gazing  through  the  moonlight, 
at  the  rapids  and  falls.  The  soft  delicious  airs,  the  entranc¬ 
ing  beauty  of  those  starry  hours,  took  all  the  awfulness 
from  that  sublimest  of  scenes. 

The  second  day  we  spent  in  visiting  the  Islands  and  the 
Whirlpool,  and  did  an  immense  amount  of  strolling  and 
climbing. 

The  Whirlpool  did  not  exactly  come  up  to  my  expecta¬ 
tions.  I  was  far  more  impressed  with  the  scenery  about 
it. 

As  I  was  bending  over  my  soup  at  dinner,  a  gentleman 
sitting  near  me  suddenly  exclaimed,  in  a  low  tone,  c  By 
Jove,  there’s  Henry  Clay  ?  ’  I  looked  up,  and  immediately 
opposite  me  sat  £  Harry  of  the  West,’  just  at  that  moment 
drawing  his  napkin  across  his  mouth.  I  was  happy  to  see 
him  looking  so  well,  after  his  late  severe  illness. 

We  spent  a  great  part  of  last  night  on  Goat  Island,  letting 
our  souls  revel  in  the  delicious  moonlight,  and  in  the  unsur¬ 
passable  loveliness,  the  unimaginable  grandeur  of  the  scenes 
around  us.  The  lunar  rainbow  was  bending  over  the  1  Hell 
of  Waters.’  ‘  Love  watching  Madness  with  unalterable 
mien.’ 

We  find  that  carriages  can  be  had  at  very  reasonable 
rates,  but  other  things  at  their  usual  exorbitant  prices  alone, 
and  that  the  whole  place  still  swarms  with  impostors  and 
impositions.  On  our  way  from  the  Clifton  to  Table  Rock,  I 
noticed  that  some  one  had  erected  a  stall  for  cakes  and 
beer,  on  the  spot  where  Miss  Rugg  fell  over  the  precipice, 
and  was  making  capital  out  of  her  sad  story.  The  old 
fellow  pretended  to  be  a  miserable  cripple,  yet  told  about 
lifting  the  poor  girl,  and  bringing  her  up  in  his  arms. 


256 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


With  the  regular  beggar’s  whine,  he  thrust  the  following 
rich  piece  of  composition  into  my  hand  : 

4  THIS  IS  THE  SPOT 

Where  Miss  Martha  Rugg  lost  her  life  by  falling  over  the 
precipice,  167  feet,  while  plucking  a  flower,  August  24, 
1844.  This  young  lady  resided  at  Lancaster,  Massachu¬ 
setts,  and  was  educated  in  Boston  by  Professor  Fields, 
and  was  remarkable  for  her  requirements  (!)  in  Botany. 

‘  Woman,  most  beauteous  of  the  human  race, 

Be  cautious  of  a  dangerous  place 
Miss  Rugg,  at  the  age  ot  twenty-three, 

Was  launched  into  eternity.’ 

Damage  for  the  card,  ten  cents  —  cheap  at  that. 

Old  Captain  Anderson,  4  the  veteran  soldier  of  Lundy’s 
Lane,’  is,  I  doubt  not,  another  humbug.  4  Ladies  and  gen¬ 
tlemen,’  says  he,  at  the  close  of  his  excruciating  sing-song 
yarn,  4 1  tell  the  story  as  I  witnessed  it  —  you  may  place 
what  instruction  you  please  upon  it.’ 

One  of  our  fellow-travellers,  from  home  and  associates 
while  here,  is  a  young  tourist  from  Zurich,  with  the  bold 
spirit,  clear  head,  and  sure  foot  of  the  Swiss  mountaineer. 
It  is  beautiful  to  witness  his  daring  and  most  wonderful 
feats,  and  interesting  to  mark  the  intense  admiration  with 
which  they  are  beheld  by  his  comrade,  an  enthusiastic 
young  German,  who  is  apparently  devoted  heart  and  soul  to 
his  fearless  and  handsome  friend.  The  two  have  formed  a 
regular  David  and  Jonathan  compact  of  intimacy  and  affec¬ 
tion.  They  are  soon  to  go  to  the  West  Indies,  from  thence 
to  California,  from  thence  to  China,  and  from  thence  back  to 
their  homes,  appearing  perhaps  some  fine  morning  with  the 
sun. 

We  leave  to-morrow  morning  for  Lewiston.  Adieu. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


257 


LETTER  XII. 

Rochester,  August  1,  1849. 

At  Lewiston  we  spent  an  hour  or  two  with  some  kind 
friends,  in  whose  company  we  crossed  the  ferry,  and  storm¬ 
ed  Queenstown  Heights.  It  was  quite  a  gallant  under¬ 
taking,  I  assure  you,  as  the  heat  was  intolerable,  and  the 
ascent  long  and  difficult.  But  the  magnificent  view  from 
the  summit  richly  repaid  us  for  all  our  toil  and  loss  of 
breath.  Some  of  the  grandest  scenes  we  had  ever  beheld 
broke  upon  our  sight,  filling  our  souls  with  the  peculiar  joy 
and  exaltation  which  Nature  has  in  store  for  her  sincere 
worshipers,  the  true  children  of  the  faith.  The  air  of  the 
heights  blew  fresh  and  cool  upon  our  heated  brows,  and 
‘  beat  balm  upon  our  eyelids,’  as,  reclining  on  the  turf, 
near  the  monument,  we  gazed  and  gazed  on  the  deep,  dark 
bed  of  the  Niagara  below,  the  beautiful  Ontario  stretching 
away  to  the  far  horizon,  and  the  way  over  which  we  had 
passed,  and  the  spot  on  which  we  had  paused,  all  so 
thronged  with  heroic  associations  and  terrible  memories. 
Up  that  steep,  then  rugged  and  wild,  the  American  regulars 
toiled  and  fought  their  way,  step  by  step,  till  all  the  ground 
was  filled  with  the  fallen,  till  every  tuft  of  grass  grew  crim¬ 
son,  and  every  untrampled  wild  flower  held  up  its  cup,  like 
a  small  goblet,  filled  with  blood  ;  here  was  the  thickest  of 
the  fight  —  the  fiercest  onslaught,  the  mightiest  contention 
—  the  loud  uproar,  the  mad  fury,  the  fire,  the  tempest,  the 
hell  of  battle !  Here  our  troops,  though  with  their  ranks 
fearfully  thinned  in  the  ascent,  were  for  a  time  victorious ; 
and  here,  though  ‘  fighting  like  incarnate  fiends,’  they  were 
conquered,  surrounded,  and  overwhelmed  by  superior  num¬ 
bers.  Here,  it  is  said,  some,  in  the  fury  of  their  shame 
and  despair,  flung  themselves  from  the  precipice,  rather 
than  yield  to  the  hated  foe  ;  and  yet,  all  the  while,  on  the 
opposite  shore,  were  ranged  hundreds  of  their  countrymen, 
armed  and  equipped  as  soldiers,  but  shrinking  and  white- 

22* 


2*58 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


faced  as  a  flock  of  frightened  sheep.  There  they  stood, 
with  all  their  braggart  banners  and  plumes  —  with  their  idle 
swords  and  silent  muskets  —  and  saw  rank  after  rank  of 
their  brave  brothers  shot  down  and  bayonetted  —  the  battle 
won  and  lost ;  there  they  stood  and  stared  and  shook  in 
their  shoes,  smitten  through  soul  and  limb  with  the  palsy  of 
cowardice. 

The  British  army  lost  in  this  battle  one  great-hearted 
hero,  and  ours  a  4  foeman  worthy  of  their  steel,’  in  the  high¬ 
born  and  chivalrous  Brock.  How  deep  and  lasting  is  the 
infamy  of  the  wretched  miscreant  whose  hand  brought  to 
ruin  a  nation’s  tribute  to  that  heroic  enemy.  The  monu-  _ 
ment  is  yet  standing,  and  may  stand  for  years,  though  rent 
from  summit  to  base  on  either  side.  I  hear  that  quite  a 
large  subscription  was  raised  some  years  since  by  the  army, 
every  soldier  giving  a  day’s  pay  to  rebuild  it ;  but  as  a  mat¬ 
ter  of  Canadian  course,  nothing  has  been  done  with  this  fund  ; 
and  the  innocent  sheep  we  found  enjoying  the  coolness  of 
the  height,  and  even  congregated  inside  the  monument,  may 
continue  to  enjoy  that  pasture  and  that  shelter,  undisturbed 
by  the  noise  of  chisel  and  hammer. 

After  descending  the  hill,  we  stopped  for  a  few  moments 
at  a  small  tavern,  by  the  roadside,  to  refresh  ourselves  with 
heavy  draughts  of  pure  spring  water,  which  needed  no  ice. 
Here  we  talked  with  our  landlord  about  the  condition  of 
the  monument,  and  found  by  him  that  great  bitterness  of 
feeling  existed  toward  the  universal  Yankee  nation,  on 
account  of  its  destruction.  The  Canadians  evidently  do  not 
believe  that  Lett  acted  in  the  capacity  of  an  independent 
rascal,  but  merely  as  the  tool  of  their  Republican  enemies 
over  the  river.  Said  a  gentleman  of  our  party  to  mine 
host,  4 1  have  no  doubt  but  that  our  army  would  gladly  con¬ 
tribute  for  the  re-erection  of  the  monument,  as  we  all  honor 
the  memory  of  General  Brock,  who  was  a  favorite  even 
with  our  soldiers,  before  he  fell.’  Beef-eating  Boniface 
drew  himself  up  with  true  English  hauteur  as  he  replied,  4 1 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


259 


l 


don’t  know  why  he  should  have  been  ;  he  never  showed  any 
great  liking  for  them  !  We  builds  our  own  muniments  ;  it’s 

7D  o 

the  Yankees  as  blows  ’em  up.’ 

From  Lewiston  to  Rochester  on  the  4  Bay  State,’  a  most 
beautiful  steamer,  commanded  by  a  gentleman.  The  trip 
was  delightful  beyond  all  description.  Sweeping  down 
that  immortal  river,  passing  between  the  picturesque  rival 
forts,  at  the  mouth,  and  bounding  out  into  the  broad,  blue 
lake,  and  then  dashing  on  and  on,  with  a  fresh  breeze  up 
and  blowing,  and  the  sunlit  waters  flashing  and  foaming 
and  careering  about  us,  with  the  greenest  of  summer  shores 
in  sight,  and  the  bluest  of  summer  skies  bending  over  us  — 
ah,  it  was  glorious  !  Yes,  4  too  lovely  for  any  thing  /’  as  I 
heard  a  lady  say  of  the  Falls.  The  day  had  been  intensely 
hot,  but  the  evening  was  deliciously  cool,  and  we  had  one 
of  the  grandest  of  sunset  pageants. 

Henry  Clay  and  party  were  on  board  the  4  Bay  State.’ 
The  great  statesman  spent  most  of  his  time  on  deck,  where 
he  was  constantly  surrounded  by  his  faithful  and  devoted 
Whig  friends.  Yet,  even  amid  the  crowd,  a  stranger  might 
have  distinguished  him  by  the  deep,  live  fire  of  his  eye 
the  splendor  of  his  brow  —  the  persuasion  of  his  lips  —  the 
suavity  of  his  manner  —  the  slow  dignity  of  his  gait  —  and 
other  peculiarities  as  widely  known  ;  such  as  the  immensity 
of  his  long-pointed  shirt  collar,  the  shocking  badness  of  his 
hat,  and  the  utterly  indescribable  character  of  his  coat. 
Ah  !  that  unique  piece  of  tailorship,  whence  came  it  ? 
What  ninth  part  of  a  Kentuckian  went  through  the  solemn 
mockery  of  measuring,  snipping,  and  fitting,  and  finally 
deluded  the  simple,  because  great-hearted,  old  man  into  the 
belief  that  the  thing  was  a  coat  ?  In  very  truth,  that  gar¬ 
ment  is  a  mystery  to  me,  whence  it  came  and  how  it  came. 
Perhaps  on  no  mortal  tailor  rests  the  responsibility  of  its 
deliberate  manufacture.  Could  it  have  been  born ,  like  the 
poet  ?  —  for  it  certainly  was  4  non  ft .’ 

We  went  into  the  Rochester  port  about  ten  o’clock  at 


260 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


night,  and  the  boat  was  immediately  boarded  by  a  large 
and  most  noisy  party  of  Mr.  Clay’s  friends,  hurraing  lustily, 
and  calling  for  the  grand  £  Embodiment.’  But  Mr.  Clay 
had  very  sensibly  sought  the  rest  he  needed  far  more  than 
shouts  and  serenades,  and  refused  to  exhibit  himself.  Great¬ 
ness  was  not  inclined  to  doff  its  nightcap  for  a  set  of 
adorers  who  give  huzzas  instead  of  votes. 

I  love  to  visit  Rochester,  the  home  of  my  early  girlhood, 
where  my  few,  brief  school-days  were  spent  —  though  my 
visit  always  makes  me  sad.  So  many  of  the  4  old  familiar 
faces’  are  gone,  or  changed  to  me  —  to  so  many  have  I 
myself  become  a  stranger.  Yet  there  are  some,  a  few  gen¬ 
erous-hearted  ones,  friends  indeed,  who  hold  me  in  better 
and  kindlier  remembrance  than  I  had  ever  hoped  for  in  the 
most  exacting  and  unreasonable  mood  of  my  heart. 

Since  we  came,  we  have  paid  a  visit  to  the  studio  of  Mr. 
Gilbert,  the  artist  of  Rochester.  This  gentleman  has  cer¬ 
tainly  a  very  fine  genius  —  too  admirable,  it  seems,  to  be 
confined  to  portrait  painting.  Yet  I  hardly  know  —  I  honor 
a  man  who  does  just  what  his  4  hand  findeth  to  do,’  well  — 
even  with  a  full  knowledge  that  were  he  differently  circum¬ 
stanced,  he  might  accomplish  something  infinitely  greater 
—  and  toils  on  patiently,  while  bearing  about  with  him, 
amid  his  humblest  labors  the  calm,  sad  consciousness  of 
power  which  has  not  found  and  may  never  find  its  perfect 
expression  and  highest  development. 

Mr.  Gilbert’s  pictures,  though  marvellously  true  as  like¬ 
nesses,  have  about  them  a  certain  life-spirit  —  a  sentiment, 
an  idealization,  a  looking  forth  of  character,  which,  though 
doubtless  elicited  momentarily  from  the  sitters,  belonged 
less  to  them  than  to  the  genius  of  the  artist. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


261 


LETTER  XIII. 

Lynn,  Mass.,  August  21,  1849. 

I  reached  Boston  in  a  terrible  rain-storm,  and  came  im¬ 
mediately  out  to  Lynn,  and  to  the  home  of  my  well  beloved 
friend,  Miss  P - ,  with  whom  I  am  at  present  domes¬ 

ticated. 

The  house  of  my  friends  is  situated  quite  near  those  pic¬ 
turesque  hills,  and  immense  dark  rocks,  which  lie  back  of 
the  flourishing  town  of  Lynn,  and  give  to  its  site  considera¬ 
ble  of  the  romantic  character,  with  a  touch  of  the  grand, 
and  quite  sufficient  of  the  beautiful,  even  with  the  ocean  left 
out  of  view  and  consideration.  Ah,  the  ocean  !  Low  I 
‘  snuffed  the  brine  afar  off!’  How  my  heart  bounded,  and 
the  blood  leaped  along  my  veins,  when  my  ear,  listening 
intent,  first  caught  its  deep,  far  roar  —  the  mingling  of  its 
own  gentle  and  terrible  voices,  as  it  murmured  along  the 
smooth,  white,  conciliating  sands  of  the  beach,  or  as  it 
boomed  among  immovable  rocks,  and  dashed  against  black, 
defiant  precipices. 

My  first,  good,  long,  large  view  of  the  ever-glorious  sea, 
was,  as  it  always  is,  after  an  absence,  a  deep,  inexpressible 
delight  —  a  positive  rapture. 

1  parted  from  old  ocean,  last  summer,  with  keen  regret, 
and,  though  I  cannot  be  so  vain  as  to  believe  that  my  feel¬ 
ings  were  reciprocated,  it  really  did  seem  to  me  that,  as 
I  came  again  into  his  mighty  and  awful  presence,  he 
‘smoothed  his  wrinkled  front,’  and  ‘roared  me  gently,  and 
smiled  a  grim  welcome  on  the  pilgrim  who  brought,  in 
humble  homage,  such  soul-felt  reverence,  such  passionate 
admiration. 

We  spent  one  day  of  last  week  in  Boston.  This  noble 
old  city  is  looking  remarkably  well  this  season.  Its  cleanli¬ 
ness  is  really  praiseworthy,  and  will  be  its  own  reward. 

The  Common  is  looking  magnificently  alter  our  recent 
heavy  rains.  What  an  ornament  and  glory  it  is  to  the 


262 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


tri-montain  city  ;  what  cool,  quiet  refuges,  what  green, 
shadowy,  breathing  and  resting  places  it  affords  from  the 
heat,  and  rush,  and  confusion,  and  pestilential  airs  of  the 
narrow,  crooked  streets,  filled  with  hurrying  crowds,  the 
endless  rattle  and  rumble  of  wheels,  the  fumes  of  bar-rooms, 
the  steam  of  restaurants,  the  thick,  commingled  tide  of  vil- 
lanous  smells  poured  out  of  apothecary  shops,  suggesting 
c  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to.’ 

We  dropped  into  the  great  jewelry  store  of  Jones,  on 
Washington  Street,  certainly  the  most  splendid  establish¬ 
ment  of  the  kind  I  have  ever  seen.  I  will  not  indulge  my¬ 
self,  nor  weary  you,  by  giving  a  description  of  some  of  the 
many  exquisite  articles  which  I  saw  there,  for  I  must  own  to 
a  true,  feminine  penchant  for  beautiful  jewelry  ;  I  can  dis¬ 
course  eloquently  on  rings,  bracelets,  and  brooches  - —  grow 
warm  on  rubies  —  get  into  positive  ecstasies  on  pearls,  eme¬ 
ralds,  and  garnets,  —  and  go  off  in  brilliant  flashes  and  small 
scintillations  when  I  come  to  diamonds. 

We  paid  a  brief  visit  to  the  exhibition  room  of  Powers’ 
statuary.  There  were  two  pieces  new  to  me  —  the  ‘Fisher 
Boy,’  and  the  bust  of  General  Jackson.  The  first-mentioned 
is  very  beautiful,  and  this,  I  think,  is  all  that  can  be  said  of  it. 
That  it  is  a  great  original  work  of  art,  I  do  not  believe.  Its 
attitude  seems  almost  a  repetition  of  that  of  the  Greek 
Slave,  and  there  is  no  reason  nor  excuse  for  this  figure 
being  altogether  without  drapery.  I  can  see  no  sentiment 
or  idea  in  the  work,  aside  from  a  representation  of  perfect 
physical  beauty,  and  perhaps  this  is  enough  ;  it  is  all  that 
there  is  in  the  Venus,  but  by  no  means  all  that  we  see  in  the 
Apollo. 

The  bust  of  Jackson  struck  me  as  having  great  character. 
The  hair  seemed  bristling  up  with  the  hickory  hero’s  own 
native  stubbornness  ;  the  heavy  brow  seemed  lowering  vetos  ; 
the  lips  had  the  set  expression  of  a  defiant  will,  as  though 
they  had  but  lately  uttered  that  terrible,  characteristic  oath, 
1  By  the  Eternal !  ’ 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


263 


The  Slave,  and  the  head  of  Proserpine,  I  had  before  seen. 
Though  the  former,  from  its  touching  associations,  impresses 
and  interests  one  most,  the  latter  is  undeniably  the  most 
beautiful,  as  far  as  it  goes.  Indeed,  the  sense  of  its  sur¬ 
passing  loveliness  weighs  on  the  heart,  and  fills  the  eyes  with 
tears.  I  do  not  know  that  the  Proserpine  ‘  tells  its  own  story,’ 
as  severe  critics  require  that  every  work  of  art  should  do,  but 
it  certainly  tells  a  story  of  an  exquisite  head,  and  throat, 
and  bosom  —  of  an  adorable  face  —  of  an  absolutely  perfect 
womanly  beauty. 

In  speaking  of  Boston  Common,  I  fear  that  it  will  be 
thought  I  slighted  the  Fountain.  The  truth  is,  we  did  not 
find  the  city  Undine  prepared  to  receive  visitors,  when  we 
called  ;  bad  luck  for  us.  We  only  saw  the  tulip  jet,  playing 
very  low.  Another  time,  we  trust  she  will  treat  us  to  a 
finer  feast  of  beauty  and  flow  of  Cochituate. 

We  also  visited  Salem,  last  week.  What  a  substantial, 
stationary,  self-satisfied,  aristocratic  look  there  is  about  this 
fine  old  town.  How  utterly  unlike  any  other  place  in  this 
changing,  hurried,  ambitious,  advancing,  levelling  new  world 
of  ours.  But  Salem  is  modern  enough  to  be  beautiful  and 
elegant,  and  evidently  rich  enough  to  dispense  with  the  noise 
and  bustle  and  mad  hurry  of  money-making. 

After  ‘  Execution  Hill  ’  had  been  pointed  out  to  me,  my 
mind  was  thronged  with  sad  and  awful  memories,  and  I 
looked  involuntarily  about  me  as  I  walked  the  streets,  for 
‘weird-sisters,’  among  the  passers-by.  I  saw  no  wrinkled, 
sinister-eyed  old  women,  but  I  saw  plenty  of  smiling, 
blooming,  young  girls,  who  could  not  deny  their  own  witch¬ 
ing  beauty ,  were  they  hanged  for  it.  Ah,  it  would  have 
gone  hard  with  them,  in  the  good  old  colony  times  !  Nei¬ 
ther  trial  by  fire,  nor  trial  by  water,  would  have  saved  them, 
for  the  name  of  their  victims  would  have  been  4  legion.’ 
After  all,  we  are  wiser  in  our  day  and  generation  than  our 
forefathers.  They  hung  such  as  were  fairly  proved  to  be 
witches,  and  condemned  as  such ;  but,  doubtless,  many 


264 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


escaped  through  cunning,  or  bribery,  or  the  pity  of  others. 
But,  in  our  time,  all  possessing,  or  suspected  of  possessing, 
or  thinking  they  possess,  dangerous  charms,  (this,  I  fear, 
comprehends  universal  womanhood,)  are  immediately  ap¬ 
prehended,  and  immured  in  close  ball-rooms,  concert-rooms, 
school-rooms,  kitchens,  and  nurseries  ;  deprived  of  proper 
air,  exercise,  aims,  and  comforts  ;  forbidden  to  ramble,  and 
climb,  laugh  loud,  and  wear  thick  shoes  ;  compelled  to  waltz 
into  the  morning,  and  sleep  into  noon  ;  to  subsist  on  French 
novels  and  French  cookery  ;  to  embroider  blue-black  bri¬ 
gands  and  pink  cherubs  in  worsted  ;  or,  even  worse,  to  toil 
day  after  day  in  noisy  factories  and  small  millinery  shops  ! 
Thus  are  our  witches  speedily  and  effectually  deprived  of 
the  mighty  spells,  the  wicked  enchantments,  which,  for  a 
brief  while,  held  in  thrall  the  souls  of  men.  Thus,  from 
bright  eyes  grown  dim,  from  rose  cheeks  grown  pale,  from 
the  plump  figure  grown  spare,  from  the  neat  dress  grown 
careless,  from  the  4  low,  sweet  voice,’  grown  sharp  and  petu¬ 
lant,  goes  out  the  strong  mysterious  charm  forever. 

Oh,  mournful  fate  of  womankind  !  Just  at  this  moment  a 
healthy,  glowing  face  was  turned  toward  me  from  only  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  and  a  pair  of  witch- hazel  eyes  met 
mine,  and  smiled  as  in  unconscious  defiance  of  my  fancy’s 
sad  prophecy.  To  her,  and  such  as  her,  I  would  say,  if  one 
has  a  corps  de  reserve  of  mental  resources  and  heart-riches, 
to  step  in  and  fill  up  the  ranks,  as  the  blooms  and  attractions 
of  youth  give  way,  why,  it  is  all  very  well,  and  shows  good 
generalship  in  this  short  struggle  with  time,  which  the  poets 
have  named  4  the  battle  of  life,’  but  which,  with  many  of  us, 
only  amounts  to  a  little  skirmishing,  with  no  glory  and  no 
spoils,  and  followed  with  endless  marching  and  counter¬ 
marching,  till  some  morning,  when  no  reveille  awakes  us, 
and  there  is  no  answer  to  our  name  in  the  roll-call.  But,  joy 
for  you,  who  doubtless  looked  for  the  4  Yours,  truly,’  a  page 
or  two  back,  and  sighed  to  find  that  the  end  was  not  yet  — 
joy,  for  at  length  the  last  inch  of  my  paper  brings  me  up 
standing.  Adieu. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


265 


LETTER  XIV. 

Lynn,  Mass.  Sept.  15,  1819. 

Since  I  wrote  you  last,  I  have  been  wandering  about  like 
a  zingara,  now  here,  now  there,  and  nowhere  very  long. 
One  week  I  spent  delightfully  with  some  friends  in  Salem. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  that  visit,  nor  those  whose  society 
and  kind  attention  rendered  it  so  agreeable.  Our  moonlight 
stroll  through  the  magnificent  Common  —  our  morning  frolic 
in  the  ocean  surf — and  then  the  long  horseback  rides,  and 
the  beautiful  bay  I  rode!  When  shall  I  cease  to  think 
pleasantly  and  gratefully  of  these  things  ? 

During  my  visit,  I  accompanied  my  friends  to  the  East 
India  Museum  —  by  far  the  most  interesting  collection  of 
curiosities  I  have  ever  seen. 

There  is  one  object,  in  particular,  about  which  I  can 
never  cease  to  wonder.  This  is  a  round  box,  some  three 
inches  in  diameter,  each  half  of  which  contains  a  hundred 
figures,  carved  out  of  the  wood,  yet  not  detached.  These 
you  are  obliged  to  examine  through  a  magnifying  glass. 
It  is  said  to  have  been  the  work  of  a  monk,  and  is  designed 
as  a  representation  of  heaven  and  hell.  It  is  wonderful  to 
see  how  much  of  the  divine  and  the  devilish  can  be  put 
into  faces  no  larger  than  pin-heads.  Of  course  there  are  a 
thousand  other  curious  and  interesting  things  to  be  seen,  but 
the  carved  box  is  evidently  the  especial  pride  of  the  cour¬ 
teous  old  gentleman  who  for  so  many  years  has  had  chaige 
of  this  valuable  museum. 

Last  week  I  spent  most  pleasantly  with  my  friends  in 
Amesbury.  13ere  I  at  once  flung  aside  all  care,  and  as 
much  as  possible  the  thought  and  memory  of  labor,  and  re¬ 
signed  myself  to  be  easy  and  comfortable,  after  the  manner 
of°  one  who,  afflicted  with  indolence  the  natural  way,  sub¬ 
mits  to  the  dispensation  with  exemplary  patience  and  for¬ 
titude. 

Here  to  our  walks  and  rides  and  boatings  belonged  a  new 

23 


266 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


and  peculiar  interest,  from  the  pleasantest  Puritanic  asso¬ 
ciations —  from  the  ground  having  been  made  classic  as 
the  scene  of  much  which  the  gentle  Margaret  Smith  has 
recorded  in  her  exquisite  4  Journal.’  How  was  the  heart 
stirred  by  such  names  as  Newbury,  4  on  ye  Merrimack,’ 
Agawam,  the  Isle  of  Shoals,  the  Agamenticus  —  and  how 
with  the  gaze  of  a  pilgrim  did  the  eye  linger  on  every  sight 
and  scene  touched  upon  by  the  graphic  and  graceful  pen  of 
the  lovely  Puritan. 

But  independent  of  associations  historial,  poetical,  and 
romantic,  the  scenery  along  and  near  the  Merrimack  is 
certainly  very  striking  and  beautiful ;  and  were  I  a  tourist  for 
pleasure,  a  pilgrim  of  the  picturesque,  I  should  most  assured¬ 
ly  follow  up  that  river.  I  recollect  one  private  residence 
on  its  banks,  not  far  from  Amesbury,  which  we  visited,  and 
which  struck  me  as  quite  the  loveliest  place  I  had  ever 
seen.  One  happy  circumstance  I  there  observed  ;  the  dwell¬ 
ers  in  this  quiet  little  Eden  were  gifted  with  taste  and  feel¬ 
ing  to  appreciate  its  loveliness ;  and,  free  from  all  affectation 
of  indifference,  frankly  acknowledged  their  great  good  for¬ 
tune,  in  being  so  richly  dowered  with  the  beauty  of  waters 
and  woodlands,  hill-side  and  glen. 

It  was  really  charming  to  mark  the  fresh,  earnest  enthu¬ 
siasm  with  which  all  spoke  of  their  beloved  home,  and  its 
delightful  surroundings. 

One  sunshiny  afternoon  we  crossed  the  river  in  a  little 
row-boat,  and  made  a  memorable  excursion  to  the  4  Devil’s 
Den.’  This  pokerish  place,  a  little  cave,  or  rather  hollow 
in  the  rocks,  I  entered  boldly,  with  no  protection  save  a 
tolerably  good  conscience,  (as  consciences  go,)  and  returned 
safely,  having  sustained  no  injury,  save  the  loss  of  a  small 
portion  of  my  dress,  tom  quite  out  by  a  sharp  projection  of 
the  rock  —  an  odd  way  of  leaving  my  peace  with  the  oldest 
inhabitant  —  ’tis  well  it  was  not  given  in  pledge  for  the 
owner’s  appearance  at  some  future  season,  when  it  might 
not  be  convenient  to  call.  A  short  distance  from  this  place 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


267 


is  a  huge  rock,  over  which,  according  to  tradition,  Old  Nick, 
in  a  most  unjustifiable  and  husband-like  freak,  wheeled  his 
poor,  frighted  helpmeet,  on  the  day  when, 

‘  As  the  lanes  were  so  broad,  and  the  streets  were  so  narrow, 

He  was  forced  to  bring  his  wife  home  on  a  wheelbarrow.’ 

There  was  the  deep,  distinct  impression  of  the  huge 
wheel,  hot  and  heavy  with  its  infernal  impetus,  across  the 
top,  and  down  the  steep  side  of  the  rock  ;  and,  my  friend,  I 
could  not  disbelieve  my  own  eyes.  Oh  !  that  the  great  and 
good  Pickwick  had  been  there  to  see ! 

I  had  none  of  my  favorite  sport,  fishing,  while  ‘  Away 
down  East,’  but  soon  after  my  return,  we  had  a  very  pleas¬ 
ant  family  party  to  the  rocks  of  Nahant.  I  shall  not  soon 
forget  that  day  of  soft  air,  genial  sunshine,  and  childlike 
mirth  and  excitement.  Our  dinner,  which  we  ate  on  the 
grass,  reclining  with  primitive  carelessness  and  ease  —  the 
crackers  and  cheese  and  pure  spring  water,  and  the  fried 
fish  —  the  fish  caught  with  our  own  hooks  and  lines  !  No 
royal  banquet  was  ever  snuffed  so  eagerly  —  wq.s  ever  dis¬ 
cussed  with  so  keen  and  healthful  and  enduring  an  appetite. 

In  fishing,  I  had  not,  at  first,  my  usual  good  luck  :  but 
having  obtained  a  position  on  a  projecting  point,  from 
whence  I  could  fling  my  line  into  deep  water,  fortune  finally 
began  to  favor  me  with  something  better  than  nibbles.  But, 
unluckily,  the  tide  was  rising,  and  before  I  was  aware,  a 
large  wave  dashed  over  my  feet ;  yet,  feeling  the  advantages 
of  my  position  for  success  in  fishing,  I  stood  my  ground, 
much  to  the  amusement  of  my  companions,  till  I  was  ankle- 
deep  in  the  surf.  But,  like  the  spirited  Mrs.  Partington,  I 
finally  found  that  the  Atlantic  ocean  was  too  much  for  me. 
Had  my  friend  Darley  been  of  the  party,  he  might  have 
made  a  striking  sketch  of  ‘  G.  G.,  as  she  appeared  when 
enjoying  herself.’ 

While  in  Boston,  a  few  days  since,  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  visiting  the  new  Athenaeum  —  an  exceedingly  beautiful 


268 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


building,  now  nearly  finished.  The  library  struck  me  as 
remarkably  fine  —  in  design  and  arrangement,  I  mean.  But 
few  pictures  have  as  yet  been  hung  in  the  gallery,  yet  there 
were  some  admirable  paintings,  and  conspicuous  among 
these  we  saw  the  ‘  Belshazzar’s  Feast’  of  Washington  All- 
ston  —  unfinished.  It  was  a  mournful  sight,  that  indistinct 
yet  startling  scene  of  splendor  and  fear  —  that  dim,  grand 
outline  of  the  beautiful  and  terrible,  which  the  spirit  of 
genius  brooded  over  long,  but  which  the  hand  of  the  mortal 
was  destined  never  to  perfect  before  a  waiting  world. 

Speaking  of  pictures,  I  think  that  I  saw,  while  in  Boston, 
the  grandest  portrait  I  have  ever  seen.  This  was  a  like¬ 
ness  of  Dickens  —  a  large  and  most  spirited  painting  by 
Alexander  —  among  portrait  painters  I  should  say,  ‘Alexan¬ 
der  the  Great.’  Now,  I  have  never  seen  Dickens,  yet  I 
would  stake  my  life  on  that  being  his  face,  God  bless  him  ! 
Oh  !  those  eyes  will  never  go  out  of  my  soul !  Why,  Pick¬ 
wick  and  Sammy,  Oliver  and  Rose,  Smike  and  Mantilini, 
little  Nell  and  Dick  Swiveller,  Tom  Pinch  and  Sairey  Gamp, 
little  Paul  and  Captain  Cuttle,  David  and  Peggotty,  all  look 
out  of  them  at  once  !  The  whole  face  and  figure  are  right, 
just  right — the  fitting,  pleasing,  manly  embodiment  of  genius, 
in  its  most  happy  and  genial  spirit  —  at  home  on  earth, 
and  on  the  most  friendly  terms  with  mankind.  It  would 
hardly  seem  that  those  warm,  flexible  lips  could  ever  curl 
in  bitter,  contemptuous  irony  —  that  the  great  heart,  looking 
through  those  clear,  dark  eyes,  could  ever  spy  keenly  for 
a  national  fault,  and,  ‘  when  found,  make  a  note  of  it.’ 
But  for  his  sins  against  a  people,  wide  humanity  will  absolve 
him ;  and  whether  he  repents  or  not,  I  believe  he  is  already 
forgiven  by  a  nation  too  great  to  suffer  from  a  misunderstand¬ 
ing  and  consequent  misrepresentation,  and  too  generous  to 
treasure  up  a  wrong. 

While  in  at  Ticknor’s,  one  afternoon,  I  chanced  to  meet 
Mr.  Whipple,  the  critic  and  essayist.  He  is  a  most  striking 
person.  His  head  is  grand  in  its  proportions,  and  his  face 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


269 


full  of  character.  His  peculiar,  terse,  epigrammatic  style 
of  talk  rivets  one’s  attention  at  once  ;  yet  he  says  his  witty 
and  brilliant  things  in  the  most  calm,  unconscious  matter-of- 
course  way  imaginable. 


LETTER  XY. 

Lynn,  Mass.,  Sept.  26,  1849. 

I  am  writing  to  you  this  delicious  and  Eden-like  morning 
in  a  novel  situation,  and  with  the  most  romantic  surround¬ 
ings.  At  the  summit  of  one  of  those  beautiful  hills  which 
lie  back  of  the  town,  I  am  seated  in  primitive  style,  on  the 
mossy  and  leaf-strewn  ground,  with  my  portfolio  on  a  rock 
at  my  side.  To  this  spot  we  often  resort,  in  the  sunny 
autumn  days  —  my  friend  A.  and  I  —  and  spend  hours  with 
our  favorite  books,  and  sometimes,  as  to-day,  with  our 
writing.  We  even  received  callers  here  one  afternoon, 
lately ;  some  friends  who,  riding  over  from  Salem,  to  find 
us  out,  followed  us  up  to  our  wild  lair.  They  seemed 
pleased  with  our  drawing-room,  though  they  probably  found 
our  sofas  rather  hard. 

This  of  all  places  is  the  one  wherein  to  read  Tennyson, 
or  Bryant,  or  Longfellow,  aright  ;  here  we  most  deeply  feel 
how  much  of  the  life  and  soul  of  Nature  has  entered  into 
their  verse,  making  it  audible  evermore  with  her  grand,  or 
glad,  or  melancholy  voices. 

Above  us,  tall,  dark  pines  are  swaying  and  murmuring 
continuously  in  the  morning  wind,  which  blows  fresh  yet 
sweet  from  the  south-west ;  ‘  the  only  wind  on  the  face  of 
the  earth  which  comes  from  heaven,’  says  the  friend  at  my 
side,  who,  lounging  on  the  turf,  is  eagerly  drinking  in  the 
soft  air,  in  long,  grateful  draughts.  Around  us,  young 
beeches  and  slender  maples,  festooned  with  the  wild  grape 
and  luxuriant  ivy,  are  swinging  their  lithe  branches  and 

23* 


270 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


fluttering  their  yet  fresh  leaves  in  the  glad  sunlight ;  the 
solemn  cedar  seems  half  to  forget  his  established  character 
for  serious-mindedness,  and  to  put  on  an  unwonted  light¬ 
ness  ;  and  all  around  the  barberry,  with  its  fairy-like  fruit, 
in  long,  red  clusters,  and  the  aster  and  the  golden-rod  make 
beautiful  the  shadowed  woodland  paths.  From  the  rock  in 
front  of  us,  we  look  down  on  the  well-built  and  interminable 
town,  stretching  itself  along  the  coast — and  beyond,  the 
grand  ocean  scene  on  which  I  could  never  weary  of  gazing 

—  the  long,  white  beach,  the  harbor  with  its  picturesque 
islands,  the  innumerable  sails  at  sea,  glimmering  in  the  sun¬ 
light  and  fading  down  the  horizon.  Far  to  the  right  rises 
the  smoke,  and  gleam  the  spires  of  Boston  —  there  towers 
the  glorious  monument,  reared  by  the  true,  patriotic  soul  of 
our  country,  to  4  the  onward  cheer  and  summons’  of  her 
loftiest  eloquence  and  her  richest  song.  Erected  there  to 
mark  the  scene  of  her  earliest  and  noblest  struggle,  may  it 
stand  as  long  as  her  name  and  history  endure,  or  perish 
only  with  her  liberties  and  her  honor. 

Ah,  4  it  is  good  to  be  here  !  ’  I  would  that  all  my  nature- 
loving,  fresh,  and  free-hearted  friends  of  the  town,  could  be 
taken  from  the  bondage  and  weariness  of  business  and 
fashion,  and  suddenly  let  loose  among  these  hills.  How 
would  we  wake  with  laughter  the  echoes  sleeping  amid  the 
rocks,  and  drown  with  the  sound  of  pleasant  voices  the  sad 
unquiet  murmur  of  these  pines. 

My  intimations  of  a  previous  existence  are  all  of  a  pastoral 
or  gipsy  life.  I  am  more  at  home  in  the  woods  than  in 
the  drawing-room  —  the  roused  blood  pours  more  richly 
through  my  heart  the  moment  I  breathe  the  air  of  the  hills 

—  my  very  step  grows  more  sure  and  elastic,  when  its  way 
is  over  rocks  and  up  steeps  and  down  into  dells.  To-day, 
the  beauty  and  gladness  and  glory  of  Nature  are  flooding 
my  senses,  till  mere  existence  becomes  an  exultation  and 
an  ecstasy.  I  know  not  what  I  write  —  my  thoughts  and 
fancies  seem  to  be  taking  a  holiday  on  their  own  account ; 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


271 


a  bird  on  the  wing  darts  past,  and  off  fly  they  in  company, 
revelling  in  his  freedom  and  echoing  his  song — now  they 
are  sailing  away  on  floating  clouds,  or  dipping  down  into 
the  surf,  like  sea-birds. 

How,  in  the  name  of  nature,  do  you  exist  in  the  city  on 
such  a  day  as  this  ?  Do  you  not  sometimes  lose  yourself  in 
luxurious  dreams  of  woodland  haunts,  of  quiet,  shadowed 
places,  where  the  soft  winds  are  at  play  ?  Do  you  not  listen 
involuntarily  for  the  voice  of  birds  and  the  chime  of  waters 
—  listen  with  the  mysterious  inward  sense,  while  the  out¬ 
ward  grows  deaf  to  the  importunate  call  for  ‘  Copy  ?  ’  Do 
you  not  start  up  and  cry,  with  Longfellow’s  Cruzado  — 

‘  I  hate  the  crowded  town  ! 

I  cannot  live  shut  up  within  its  gates  ; 

Air — I  want  air,  and  sunshine,  and  blue  sky, 

The  feeling  of  the  breeze  against  my  face, 

The  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  my  feet, 

And  no  walls  but  the  far-off  mountain  tops. 

Then  I  am  free  and  strong  —  once  more  myself.’ 

By  this  I  am  reminded  of  an  incident,  or  rather  the  inci¬ 
dent  of  yesterday  —  an  accidental  meeting  with  the  poet 
from  whom  I  have  quoted  the  above  lines.  It  happened 
where  many  a  pleasant  meeting  has  happened,  at  Ticknor’s. 
Aside  from  mere  curiosity,  of  which  I  suppose  I  have  my 
woman’s  share,  I  have  always  wished  to  look  on  the  flesh 
and  blood  embodiment  of  that  rare  genius,  of  that  mind 
stored  with  the  wealth  of  many  literatures,  the  lore  of  many 
lands,  for  in  Longfellow  it  is  the  scholar  as  well  as  the  poet 
whom  we  reverence.  The  first  glance  satisfied  me  of  one 
happy  circumstance  — that  the  life  and  health  which  throb¬ 
bed  and  glowed  through  this  poet’s  verse  had  their  natural 
correspondences  in  the  physical.  He  appears  perfectly 
healthful  and  vigorous  —  is  rather  English  in  person.  His 
head  is  simply  full,  well-rounded,  and  even  —  not  severe  or 
massive  in  character.  The  first  glance  of  his  genial  eyes, 


272 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


which  seem  to  have  gathered  up  sunshine  through  all  the 
summers  they  have  known,  and  the  first  tones  of  his  cordial 
voice,  show  one  that  he  has  not  impoverished  his  own 
nature  in  so  generously  endowing  the  creations  of  his  genius 
—  has  not  drained  his  heart  of  the  wine  of  life,  to  fill  high 
the  beaker  of  his  song. 

Mr.  Longfellow  does  not  look  poetical,  as  Keats  looked 
poetical,  perhaps,  but,  as  Hood  says  of  Gray’s  precocious 
youth,  who  used  to  get  up  early, 

‘  To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn  ’  — 

4  lie  died  young.’  But,  what  is  better,  our  poet  looks  well , 
for,  after  all,  health  is  the  best,  most  happy  and  glorious 
thing  in  the  world.  On  my  Parnassus  there  should  be  no 
half-demented,  long-haired,  ill-dressed  bards,  lean  and  pale, 
subject  to  sudden  attacks  of  poetic  frenzy  —  sitting  on  damp 
clouds,  and  harping  to  the  winds  ;  but  they  should  be  a 
hearty,  manly,  vigorous  set  of  inspired  gentlemen ,  erect  and 
broad-chested,  with  features  more  on  the  robust  than  the 
romantic  style  —  writing  in  snug  studies,  or  fine,  large  libra¬ 
ries,  surrounded  by  beauty,  elegance  and  comfort  —  receiv¬ 
ing  inspiration  quietly  and  at  regular  hours,  after  a  hot 
breakfast,  the  morning  paper  and  a  cigar  —  given  to  hospi¬ 
tality  and  good  dinners  —  driving  their  own  bays,  and  treating 
their  excellent  wives  to  a  box  at  the  opera,  a  season  at  New¬ 
port,  a  trip  to  the  Falls,  or  a  winter  in  Rome. 

The  comforts  of  life  have  been  long  enough  monopolized 

by  thrifty  tradesmen  — 4  men  in  the  coal  and  cattle  line’ _ 

and  good  living  by  bishops  and  aldermen.  It  is  the  divine 
right  of  genius  to  be  well  kept  and  cared  for  by  the  world, 
which  too  often  4  entertains  the  angel  unaware,’  on  thin 
soups  and  sour  wines,  or,  at  the  best,  on  unsubstantial  puff- 
paste. 

I  heard  yesterday  that  Fredrika  Bremer  had  really  arrived 
in  New  York.  I  hope  that  it  is  so.  She  has  hosts  of  ad¬ 
mirers  all  over  our  country,  and  is  actually  loved,  as  few 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


273 


authors  are  loved,  with  a  simple,  cordial,  home  affection  — 
for  she  is  especially  a  writer  for  the  fireside,  the  family  cir¬ 
cle,  and  thus  addresses  herself  to  the  affections  of  a  people, 
whose  purest  joys  and  deepest  interests  centre  in  domestic 
life.  America  will  take  to  her  heart  this  child  of  genius  and 
of  nature  —  her  home  shall  be  by  every  hearth  in  our  land 
which  has  been  made  a  dearer  and  a  brighter  place  by  her 
poetry,  her  romance,  and  her  genial  humor.  She  will  be 
welcomed  joyfully  by  every  nature  which  has  profited  by 
her  pure  teachings,  and  received  her  revelations  —  by  every 
spirit  which  has  been  borne  upward  by  her  aspirations,  or 
softened  by  the  spring  breath,  the  soft  warmth  and  light  of 
her  love. 

To  woman  has  the  Swedish  novelist  spoken,  and  by  wo¬ 
man  must  she  be  welcomed  and  honored  here  ;  but  to  the 
men  of  America  comes  one  whose  very  name  should  cause 
the  blood  to  leap  along  their  veins  —  he,  the  heart’s  brother 
of  freemen  all  over  the  world  —  the  patriot,  prophet  and 
soldier,  the  hero  of  the  age  —  Kossuth,  the  Hungarian! 

Flow  will  he  be  received  here  ?  Flow  will  the  deep,  in¬ 
tense,  yet  mournful  sympathy,  the  soul-felt  admiration,  the 
generous  homage  of  the  country  find  expression  ?  Not  in 
parades  and  dinners,  and  public  speeches,  for  Heaven’s 
sake  ! 

Would  you  feast  and  fete  a  man,  on  whose  single  heart  is 
laid  the  dead  crushing  weight  of  a  nation’s  sorrow  —  about 
whose  spirit  a  nation’s  despair  makes  deep,  perpetual  night  ? 

I  know  not  how  my  countrymen  will  meet  this  glorious 
exile  ;  but  were  I  a  young  man,  with  all  the  early  love  and 
fresh  enthusiasm  for  liberty  and  heroism,  I  would  bow  reve¬ 
rently,  and  silently  kiss  his  hand.  Were  I  a  pure  and  tried 
statesman,  an  honest  patriot,  I  would  fold  him  to  my  breast. 
Were  I  an  old  veteran,  with  the  fire  of  freedom  yet  warm¬ 
ing  the  veins  whose  young  blood  flowed  in  her  cause,  I 
should  wish  to  look  on  Kossuth  and  die  ! 

Who  can  say  this  man  has  lived  in  vain  ?  Though  it 


274 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


was  not  his  to  strike  the  shackles  from  his  beloved  land, 
till  she  should  stand  free  and  mighty  before  Heaven,  has  he 
not  struggled  and  suffered  for  her  ?  Has  he  not  spoken 
hallowed  and  immortal  words  —  words  which  have  gone  forth 
to  the  nations,  a  power  and  a  prophecy,  which  shall  sound  on 
and  on,  long  after  his  troubled  life  is  past  —  on  and  on,  till 
their  work  is  accomplished  in  great  deeds  —  and  the  deeds 
become  history,  to  be  read  by  free  men  with  quickened 
breath,  and  eyes  that  lighten  with  exultation  ?  And  it  is  a 
great  thing  that  Europe,  darkened  by  superstition  and 
crushed  by  despotism,  has  known  another  hero  —  a  race  of 
heroes  I  might  say,  for  the  Hungarian  uprising  has  been  a 
startling  and  terrific  spectacle  for  kings  and  emperors.  And 
‘the  end  is  not  yet.’  There  must  be  a  sure,  a  terrible  retri¬ 
bution  for  the  oppressors,  a  yet  more  fearful  finale  to  this 
world-witnessed  tragedy.  While  the  heavens  endure,  let  us 
hold  on  to  the  faith  that  the  right  shall  prevail  against  the 
wrong;  when  the  last  long  struggle  shall  come,  that  the  soul 
of  freedom  is  imperishable,  and  shall  triumph  over  all  op¬ 
pressions  on  the  face  of  the  whole  earth. 

Adieu. 


LETTER  XVI. 

Lynn,  November  8,  1849. 

I  have  been  delayed  on  the  seashore  much  longer  than  I 
anticipated  in  the  early  autumn,  but  shall  probably  soon  take 
up  my  line  of  march  westward  and  homeward.  I  am  al¬ 
ready  beginning  to  feel  a  little  ‘journey-proud’  —  that  is, 
unsettled  and  restless,  and  quite  indisposed  to  thought  or 
exertion.  Six  or  seven  hundred  miles,  in  the  last  of  No¬ 
vember,  by  steamboat  and  railway,  and  stage-coach,  taking 
the  Alleghanies  on  my  way  —  a  nice  little  pleasure-trip,  to 
be  sure  !  But  through  the  days  of  that  weary  journey, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


275 


loved  voices  will  seem  to  call  to  me,  and  nearer,  and  nearer 
every  night,  shall  seem  to  shine  before  me  a  cheerful  light 
from  the  windows  of  my  home. 

We  have  had  terrible  equinoctial  storms ;  which  were 
something  new  to  me,  as  my  trans-Alleghanian  experience 
embraced  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  never  knew  it  rain  with 
such  passion  and  fury,  and  then  the  wind,  the  mad,  mad 
wind,  how  it  came  raving  and  roaring,  and  rolling  the  stu¬ 
pendous  waves  far  up  the  shelvy  beach,  and  high  up  against 
the  black  rocks  with  a  shock  like  thunder !  Nahant,  it  is 
said,  was  the  scene  of  much  grandeur  and  terrific  beauty  all 
through  the  storm.  There  were  some  wrecks  along  the 
coast,  as  you  will  have  heard ;  one  where  the  suffering  and 
loss  of  life  were  most  frightful. 

The  weather  has  cleared  up  beautifully  ;  it  is  rather  cold, 
indeed,  for  the  season.  Our  evenings  are  especially  chilly, 
but  our  mornings  are  fine,  and  the  mellow  autumn  sunshine 
lights  up  the  dark  hills  and  gorgeous  forest  most  gloriously. 

I  miss  from  the  beach  all  the  dashing  turn-outs,  gay  eques¬ 
trians,  moss-hunting  young  ladies,  and  shell-searching  chil¬ 
dren  of  the  fashionable  Nahant  season.  I  sometimes  meet 
a  solitary  sportsman,  with  his  dog  and  gun,  but  frequently  I 
find  myself  quite  alone  with  old  Ocean,  who  discourses  as 
grandly  as  though  he  had  for  his  audience  the  entire  upper 
ten  of  American  aristocracy. 

But  I  must  pause  here,  as  my  hour  for  riding  has  arrived, 
and  my  horse  will  soon  be  at  the  door.  So  au  revoir. 

Back  again  after  a  ride  as  was  a  ride  —  back  again  as 
usual  with  invigorated  nerves  and  exhilarated  spirits  !  It  was 
nearly  high  tide  when  I  reached  the  seaside,  and  there  was 
only  the  least  little  strip  of  a  beach  visible,  but  the  waves 
after  the  strong  east  wind  of  yesterday  ran  fast  and  high, 
the  sweet  south-west  wind  of  this  morning  not  having  yet 
smoothed  the  angry  face  of  the  deep.  The  sunlight  flashed 
and  sparkled  on  the  foaming  surf  with  a  dazzling,  half¬ 
blinding  brilliance  —  innumerable  sea-birds  were  on  the 


276 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


wing,  and  many  an  outward  bound  sail  was  gleaming  in  the 
distance.  Altogether  the  scene  was  passing  fair  and  pleas¬ 
ant  to  look  upon  ;  but  my  horse  was  restive,  and  delicate 
about  wetting  his  fetlocks  in  the  rising  tide,  and  rather 
hurried  me  away. 

This  morning,  as  usual,  on  reaching  the  beach,  I  threw  a 
quick,  involuntary  glance  over  the  broad  expanse  of  waters 
to  see  if  I  might  any  where  spy  —  the  sea-serpent. ;  —  but 
alas,  not  one  gleam  of  his  terrible  mane,  not  one  huge  con¬ 
volution  of  his  vast  length  met  my  eager,  half-expectant 
gaze  ! 

I  see  that  you  are  4  of  little  faith  ’  as  regards  sea-ser¬ 
pents  in  general,  and  the  Nalmnt  sea-serpent  in  particular; 
but  as  for  me,  I  am  a  firm  believer,  and  am  quite  willing  to 
dare  all  the  small  peltings  of  ridicule  for  the  good  cause. 

I  base  my  belief  principally  on  the  universal  good  char¬ 
acter  of  Swampscot  fishermen,  from  which  class  of  citizens 
come  most  of  the  witnesses  of  his  mighty  snakeship’s  ac¬ 
tual  existence  and  several  revelations  to  mortal  vision.  I 
understand  that  very  few  about  here  doubt  the  recently  de¬ 
posed  evidence  of  the  monster’s  last  appearance  near  Na- 
hant  beach.  The  Swampscot  fishermen  are  a  noble,  honest 
set  of  men,  almost  incredibly  fearless  and  daring.  They 
have  an  exceedingly  picturesque  appearance  in  their  bright, 
red  flannel  shirts,  loose  trowsers,  caps  or  tarpaulins,  and  it  is 
pleasant  to  see  them  going  forth  gaily  in  the  morning,  in  their 
light,  dancing  boats,  or  returning  at  sunset,  with  the  reward 
of  the  long  day’s  persevering  toil.  They  are  said  to  be 
very  true  and  generous  toward  one  another —  only  emulous 
in  acts  of  hardihood  and  heroism,  in  times  of  danger,  tem¬ 
pest  and  shipwreck. 

Apropos  of  hardihood,  I  heard  a  remarkable  instance  of 
it  the  other  day.  It  seems  that  Government  is  about  to  erect 
at  the  end  of  a  dangerous  reef  on  this  coast,  a  light-house, 
which  it  is  proposed  to  place  on  eight  iron  pillars,  fifty  feet 
high.  Think  what  a  lonely,  drear,  terrible  situation  through 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


277 


tempestuous  autumn  or  bleak  winter,  in  4  night  and  storm 
and  darkness  !  ’  And  yet  many  applications  have  already 
,  been  made  for  the  place  of  keeper.  There  is  true  courage 
and  spirit  —  there  is  Yankee  spunk  for  you.  What  will  not 
a  brave  man  dare,  what  fury  of  winds,  what  pelting  of 
storms,  what  dark  threatenings  of  angry  deeps,  to  advance 
his  fortunes  and  give  bread  and  butter  to  an  interesting 
family ! 

A  course  of  lectures  has  just  been  commenced  before  the 
Lyceum  of  this  town.  There  are  some  great  names  on  the 
list  of  lecturers  —  such  as  Emerson,  Whipple,  Beecher, 
Horace  Mann,  Thomas  Starr  King,  and  Wendell  Phillips. 
Henry  Giles  delivered  the  introductory  lecture  last  night. 
He  gave  one  of  a  course  which  he  has  lately  been  writing 
on  ‘  The  Agencies  of  Social  Culture.’  The  subject  of  this 
one  was  4  Books,’  a  noble  theme,  treated  in  a  noble  and 
masterly  manner.  Mr.  Giles  is  the  most  admirable,  the  most 
impressive,  the  most  irresistible  lecturer  I  have  ever  heard. 
Wholly  without  intellectual  arrogance,  his  opinions  are  yet 
decisions  —  his  persuasion  is  power,  and  his  thought  has  a 
live  energy,  a  will,  and  a  weight,  warming  and  rousing  and 
again  subduing  the  mind  of  the  listener.  And  yet  his  genius 
does  not  constrain,  but  possesses  us  —  does  not  compel,  but 
impels  us  —  does  not  drive,  but  cheers  us  on.  It  is  not  the 
wild  flickering  of  a  Will-o’-the-wisp,  enticing  and  betray¬ 
ing  the  feet  of  the  follower  into  pathless  wastes  and  mists, 
and  quagmires  —  but  a  moving  pillar  of  flame,  with  a  clear 
and  steady  brilliance,  lighting  where  it  leads  us  on  over  safe 
though  constantly  ascending  ground  —  the  mountain  paths 
of  thought,  the  high  places  of  the  soul.  This  genial,  com¬ 
panionable,  democratic  element  t)f  genius  is  most  charac¬ 
teristic  of,  if  not  peculiar  to  this  eloquent  lecturer.  There 
is,  we  all  know,  such  a  thing  as  a  cold,  irresponsible,  intel¬ 
lectual  despotism,  which  would  subject  our  will  and  absorb 
our  individuality — which  respects  neither  mental  indepen¬ 
dence  nor  moral  rights,  deals  lightly  with  our  most  cher- 

24 


t 


278 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


ished  principles,  and  has  no  shadow  of  toleration  for  our 
prejudices  —  a  despotism  which  rouses  the  antagonism  of  a 
strong  mind,  and  brings  a  weak  one  into  absolute  subju¬ 
gation. 

How  admirable,  how  beneficent,  how  liberal  and  demo¬ 
cratic  is  this  modern  form  of  conveying  instruction  and 
intellectual  amusement  through  popular  lectures,  of  giving 
voice  and  emphasis  to  silent  thought,  of  sending  home  truth 
with  a  new  impetus,  through  a  ringing  tone  and  a  bold  ges¬ 
ture  —  of  radiating  wit  and  humor  from  the  changing  face, 
from  the  lips’  quick  play,  half  anticipating  the  sarcasm  and 
the  jest —  from  the  lit  eye,  as  well  as  by  the  glowing  words 
and  high  aspirings  and  fair  imaginings  of  genius. 

What  direct,  incalculable  power  is  there  in  the  actual  pres¬ 
ence,  the  living  voice,  in  the  burning  eye,  the  illuminated 
countenance  of  genius  !  Authors,  false  in  heart,  and  poor 
in  virtue  and  honor,  may  sometimes  pen  sublime  theories 
and  pure  moralities,  deceive  us  with  eloquent  lies  ;  but  the 
face  of  a  true  orator  is  Truth’s  own  tablet — in  his  voice 
peals  Freedom’s  own  trumpet-tone,  and  in  his  very  gesticu¬ 
lations  are  the  native  impulses,  the  force  and  vehemence  of 
a  roused  and  fiery  spirit;  and  a  quick  life,  a  hearty  sin¬ 
cerity,  a  mighty  energy,  throb,  and  sound,  and  struggle  in 
the  words  which  leap  at  once  into  the  hearer’s  heart,  and 
abide  there,  not  to  sink  into  silence  and  slumber,  but  for  a 
purpose  and  a  work. 

The  next  lecture  before  the  Lyceum,  which  is  to  be  given 
by  Mr.  Whipple,  the  critic  and  essayist,  is  looked  forward 
to  with  much  interest.  You  have  probably  seen  the  volume 
of  lectures  lately  published  by  this  gentleman.  A  most 
admirable  book,  is  it  not  ?  This  author  is  one  of  the  true 
glories  of  Boston.  But  a  short  time  ago  his  genius  was  but 
a  hope  and  a  promise  —  now  it  is  a  pride  and  a  fulfilment. 
And  such  large  development  of  genius  in  so  young  a  man 
is  indeed  wonderful,  and  the  modern  Athenians  may  well 
be  pardoned  a  sort  of  complacent  self-gratulation  in  pointing 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS.  279 

v 

him  out  in  their  lyceums  and  reading-rooms,  or  beneath  the 
shades  of  their  Common,  where  he  strolls,  in  close  compan¬ 
ionship  with  wise  and  beneficent  thoughts,  as  walked  the 
ancient  philosophers  through  the  academic  groves.  In  some 
things  our  youthful  philosopher  has  the  advantage  of  those 
sage  old  gentlemen.  He  is  not  bound  to  bear  himself  with 
a  toga-ed  and  statuesque  dignity  —  he  has  mirth  and  genial 
humor,  as  well  as  gravity  and  wisdom  —  he  can  laugh  with 
the  world  as  well  as  at  it — can  feel  as  well  as  think  —  can 
have  pleasant  relations  with  the  human  heart,  as  well  as 
visitings  from  the  divine  mind  —  can  be  quite  at  home  and 
comfortable  in  common  life,  after  an  occasional  uplift  into 
Olympian  sublimities. 

Of  this  volume,  the  lectures  on  4  Genius,’  and  4  Intellec¬ 
tual  Health  and  Disease,’  are  perhaps  the  finest ;  but  to  me, 
that  on  4  Authors,’  and  the  one  on  4  Dickens,’  are  espe¬ 
cially  delightful.  Yet  I  have  somewhat  against  this  essayist, 
admirable  as  he  is.  To  me  it  seems  that  some,  indeed 
many  of  the  anecdotes,  puns  and  witticisms,  introduced  into 
these  lectures,  rather  break  the  harmony  of  his  style,  than 
aid  his  argument  by  illustration.  His  thoughts  are  emi¬ 
nently  lucid  and  direct,  and  need  no  such  help  and  setting 
off.  But  perhaps  these  things  were  necessary  to  give  light¬ 
ness  and  piquancy  to  a  lecture  which  was  to  be  delivered 
before  a  popular  audience,  though  I  can  but  think  that  the 
same  article  would  read  better  without  them.  Yet,  this  is 
merely  my  opinion ;  another  reader  might  object  to  the 
absence  of  these  same  anecdotes,  which  are  good  in  them¬ 
selves  —  possibly  great  favorites  —  certainly  old  acquaint¬ 
ances. 

The  lecture  on  4  Genius  ’  seems  most  free  from  this  — 
fault  I  will  scarcely  presume  to  call  it  —  say  peculiarity. 
This  has  a  high  and  well  sustained  tone  throughout ;  is  true 
and  earnest  in  thought,  beautiful  and  symmetrical  in  style. 
It  may  be  that  there  is  more  bold,  startling,  and  suggestive 
expression  in  the  4  Wit  and  Humor,’  but  the  ‘Genius’  has 


280 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


a  richer  flow  of  eloquence,  a  calmer  beauty,  and  a  grander 
central  idea. 

There  are  magnificent  passages  in  4  Intellectual  Health 
and  Disease/  and  among  them  I  was  glad  and  grateful  in 
my  heart  to  find,  one  in  bold  and  scathing  rebuke  of  Amer¬ 
ican  slavery.  The  writer  speaks  with  the  manliness  of  a 
freeman,  if  not  with  the  fervor  of  a  philanthropist.  He 
does  not  weep  and  lament  over  the  evils  of  Oppression  — 
he  derides  its  Folly,  and  execrates  ‘  the  brazen  impudence 
of  its  Guilt.’ 

It  is  a  part  of  our  author’s  philosophy,  that  wit  and  satire 
are  the  surest,  keenest  weapons  of  Freedom  ;  that  stronger 
is  he  who  can  raise  a  laugh,  than  he  who  raises  armies 
against  the  Oppressor  ;  that  despotic  States  which  have  sur¬ 
vived  fearful  political  earthquakes,  will  be  in  more  serious 
danger  from  the  convulsions  of  lawless  popular  merriment ; 
and  that  seats  of  power,  which  have  withstood  the  roar  of 
artillery,  will  shake  and  totter  to  the  roar  of  a  grand  univer¬ 
sal  cachination. 

And  is  not  this  true  ?  We  may  remonstrate  and  reason 
with  or  curse  and  rage  against  tyranny  to  all  eternity  but 
if  we  pay  it  a  sort  of  shuddering  respect,  evince  a  supersti¬ 
tious  awe  in  the  presence  of  that  ‘  Mystery  of  iniquity,’ 
it  stands  all  the  firmer,  insolently  defying  Heaven,  and  re¬ 
morselessly  desolating  Earth.  Pity  and  sorrow  and  con¬ 
science  may  plead  in  vain  at  the  tyrant’s  breast,  but  the 
laugh  of  scorn,  the  bitter  jest  of  irony,  the  sidelong  glance 
of  contempt,  are  as  sharp  daggers  going  home. 

Yours,  truly. 


LETTER  XVII. 

New  York,  November  30,  1849. 

The  weather,  since  my  arrival  in  town,  though  somewhat 
cold,  has  been  very  obligingly  clear  and  sunny  —  a  good 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


281 


light  by  which  to  see  pictures,  shop-windows,  and  gay  prom- 
enaders.  The  pctve  of  Broadway  is  resplendent,  dazzling 
with  its  endless  succession  of  brilliant  winter  costumes.  In 
truth  a  splendid  sight,  though  perhaps  too  suggestive  of  vain 
thoughts  and  carnal  desires.  Oh,  great  soul !  Oh,  devout 
heart !  be  thou  blind  to  the  waving  of  plumes  and  the  flutter 
of  ribbons  —  to  the  rich  lights  playing  about  the  folds  of 
velvets  and  satins  ;  the  ostentatious  comfort  of  furs  ;  the  soft, 
seducing  lustre  of  poplins  !  Set  thy  face  as  a  flint  against 
the  insinuating  smiles  of  handsome  young  shopmen  make 
thine  ear  like  unto  an  adder’s  towards  voluble  French  mil¬ 
liners  _  be  strong  in  thy  resistance  —  be  humble  in  thy  de¬ 
sires —  leave  thy  purse  at  home,  and  thou  art  safe. 

Condole  with  me  — I  have  missed  seeing  Fredrika  Bre¬ 
mer  !  The  day  I  left  Boston  she  made  her  exodus  from 
Gotham  —  set  out  for  Hartford  for  a  brief  visit  to  Mis. 
Sigourney,  from  whence  she  goes  to  Boston,  wheie  she  is 
to  spend  some  time  I  believe.  My  friend,  Miss  Lynch,  with 
whom  Miss  Bremer  stayed  some  weeks,  speaks  of  her  illus¬ 
trious  guest  with  much  enthusiasm  and  affection. 

From  what  I  hear,  I  should  suppose  the  poor  little  woman 
was  nearly  killed  with  kindness  while  in  New  Foik  c[uite 
worn  down  and  fagged  out  by  visits,  dinner-parties,  and  soi¬ 
rees ,  and  beset  beyond  all  example  by  merciless  autograph 
hunters.  Now  she  must  open  a  second  campaign  in  Boston 
—  soon  a  third  in  Philadelphia  or  Washington,  and  so  on. 
Oh,  Heaven  save  thee,  Fredrika !  Keep  thee  from  laying 
thy  death  at  Yankee  doors  —  thy  bones  so  far  from  thy  be¬ 
loved  Northland  !  For  the  sake  of  hosts  of  readers,  humanity, 
and  the  Howitts,  take  care  of  thyself! 

I  have  lately  had  the  pleasure  of  attending  one  of  Miss 
Lynch’s  delightful  Saturday  evening  re-unions,  where  I  met 
many  distinguished  and  agreeable  persons  —  authors,  artists, 
musicians,  heroes,  and  exiled  foreigners,  moustached  and 
melancholy.  Among  the  Matter  was  the  Hungarian  Envoy, 
a  most  interesting  man,  with  his  heart  still  alive  and  a-glow 


282 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


with  patriotism  and  the  true  Magyar  fire,  amid  all  the  chill 
and  heaviness  of  disappointment  and  despair.  I  looked,  with 
a  strange,  half-wondering  interest,  on  the  man  who  could 
call  Kossuth  ‘  friend,’  for  until  then,  it  seems,  I  had  regarded 
the  grand  Magyar  chieftain  more  as  an  abstract  divine  idea 
of  heroism  and  greatness,  than  as  their  live  revelation,  their 
human  embodiment ;  or  as  an  actual,  visible,  palpable  flesh- 
and-blood  existence. 

A  rare  pleasure  was  ours,  that  evening,  in  listening  to  the 
playing  and  singing  of  Mr.  Richard  Willis,  the  young  com¬ 
poser  and  ardent  musical  enthusiast,  who  has  but  lately 
returned  from  Germany,  where  he  has  spent  some  years  in 
study.  His  music  seems  mostly  sad,  thoughtful,  and  deli¬ 
cate,  rather  than  dashing  and  stormy  in  character ;  it  is  sweet, 
tender,  earnest,  yet  full  of  spiritual  meanings  ;  it  is  like 
Shelley’s  poetry.  In  singing,  he  does  not  startle  and  arouse 
as  much  as  he  impresses  and  subdues ;  his  tones  are  sur¬ 
charged  with  feeling  ;  his  heart  trembles  along  his  voice. 
Aside  from  this  rare  gift,  which  he  has  cultivated  with  tire¬ 
less  devotion,  Mr.  Willis  possesses  yet  another,  that  of  song. 
He  is  a  fine  poet,  and  writes  the  words  as  well  as  the  music 
of  his  delicious  songs.  What  a  beautiful  and  enviable  quality 
of  genius  !  What  a  full  and  perfect  expression  is  thus  given 
to  the  sad  and  joyous  emotions  of  the  heart,  to  its  dreams 
and  loves,  wild  hopes  and  intense  longings,  and  passionate 
regrets  —  to  the  restless  play  of  fancy  —  to  the  swell  and 
surging  of  free,  strong  thought  —  to  all  the  deepest  delights 
and  divinest  aspirations  of  the  spirit ! 

There  was  also  at  the  soiree ,  a  young  German  pianist, 
whose  name  I  will  not  attempt  to  write,  who  is  said  to 
possess  great  genius.  His  playing  is  surely  wonderfully  fine 
and  most  peculiar  in  its  character.  As  I  stood  near  him  and 
watched  his  fingering,  thus  listening  with  the  eye  as  well  as 
ear,  it  did  not  seem  to  me  that  he  so  much  evoked  the  music 
from  the  instrument  before  him,  as  bestowed  it,  in  a  royal 
largess,  a  golden  shower  of  melody.  The  liquid  tones 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


283 


seemed  dripping  from  his  fingers,  rather  than  leaping  up 
from  the  keys  at  his  quick,  electric  touch.  It  was  very 
brilliant,  yet,  after  all,  we  missed  the  audible  heart-beatings, 
the  tearful  quality,  the  sweet  human  feeling,  which  had  most 
charmed  us  in  the  music  of  the  young  American. 

I  will  finish  this  in  Philadelphia.  Till  then,  adieu. 


Philadelphia,  December  5,  1849. 

No  incident  of  any  note  occurred  on  the  journey  from 
New  York.  Yet  stay  —  there  was  one,  pleasant  to  me, 
though  perhaps  of  no  great  importance  to  the  public.  As  I 
left  the  boat  for  the  cars,  I  met  on  the  landing  four  magnifi¬ 
cent  Newfoundland  dogs  !  They  were  the  largest  I  had 
ever  seen,  entirely  black,  with  faces  full  of  intelligence,  and 
the  peculiar  genial  expression  which  characterizes  that  royal 
race.  One  of  them  so  strongly  resembled  a  favorite  dog  at 
home,  that  I  paused  involuntarily,  and  laid  my  arm  over  his 
neck.  The  noble  creature  turned  his  beautiful  great  eyes 
upon  me,  and  recognising  a  friend  at  once,  by  the  unerring 
instincts  of  undegenerate  dog-nature,  leaned  his  head  against 
me,  and  kissed  my  hand  with  a  grave  gallantry  becoming 
his  stately  presence.  I  could  have  taken  off  my  watch  and 
given  it  for  him  then.  But  this  was  no  place  for  buying  and 
selling ;  I  was  obliged  to  hurry  along,  looking  back  mourn¬ 
fully  and  admiringly  on  the  superb  group  — 

‘  A  sight  that  made  me  grieve, 

And  yet  the  sight  was  fair.’ 

I  was  lately  invited  to  visit  in  a  family  whose  members 
were  almost  entirely  unknown  to  me.  On  the  morning  of 
my  arrival,  I  found  myself  in  an  elegant  mansion,  with 
rooms  lar'ge  and  lofty,  and  somewhat  cold.  I  felt,  I  know 
not  what,  of  disappointment  and  apprehension.  But,  in 
passing  along  the  hall,  on  being  conducted  to  my  room,  a 


284 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


beautiful  dog  came  bounding  toward  me.  His  very  pres¬ 
ence  was  a  cordial  welcome,  and  brought  with  it  a  delicious 
sense  of  home-comfort.  I  accepted  it  as  a  sure  promise  of 
that  genuine  politeness,  that  high-bred  kindness  which  after¬ 
ward  made  the  days  of  my  visit  pass  so  swiftly  and  happily  ; 
that  visit  of  which  I  now  retain  only  pleasant  and  grateful 
memories.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XVIII. 

New  Brighton,  Pa.,  January  9,  1850. 

My  visit  at  Philadelphia  was  one  succession  of  bright  and 
pleasant  scenes.  I  had  returned  from  an  absence  of  nearly 
two  years,  somewhat  fearing  that  those  dear  friendships 
which  had  once  made  my  happiness  there,  might  have  fallen 
away.  But  I  found  them  still  full  of  generous  life  —  ripened, 
not  withered.  It  was  a  harvest  season  to  my  heart. 

I  have  very  distinct  recollections  of  some  paintings  and 
statuary  which  I  saw  while  I  was  in  the  city.  One  of  my 
first  visits  was  to  the  Hero  and  Leander  of  Steinhauser. 
The  Leander  is  certainly  beautiful  above  all  praise,  but  the 
Hero  hardly  satisfied  me.  The  upturned  face  of  the  lover 
is  lit  with  the  glow,  the  rapture  of  a  divine  love  —  a  mighty, 
immortal  passion.  All  warmth,  all  vitality,  seem  to  have 
left  his  chilled  and  wearied  frame,  and  to  have  flowed  and 
crowded  up  into  that  glorious  face.  That  pure  and  exultant 
light  of  joy,  breaking  up  through  the  cold  and  the  damp  says 
—  i  I  have  found  my  rest !  Here  is  my  recompense,  here  is 
my  exceeding  great  reward.’ 

But  Hero’s  reception  of  the  bold  swimmer  impressed  me 
as  more  sisterly  than  lover-like.  There  is  much  tenderness 
in  her  face  and  attitude,  but  it  is  not  impassioned  tenderness. 
She  seems  to  have  awaited  him  with  the  utmost  calmness 
and  patience,  and  though  he  comes  through  darkness,  and 
cold,  and  flood,  wearied  nigh  unto  death,  yet  with  the  great 


I 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS.  285 

love  of  a  great  soul  leaping  upward  to  his  lips,  she  receives 
him  tenderly  indeed,  but  as  calmly  and  properly  as  though 
he  had  come  in  his  coach  and  four,  journeying  by  easy 
stages,  to  do  his  wooing  according  to  common  forms  and 
conventional  usages. 

I  have  a  little  print  from  an  English  picture,  the  idea  of 
which  I  like  better.  In  this,  Hero  has  hastened  down  to  the 
very  brink  of  the  flood,  and,  with  an  impulse  of  truest  wo¬ 
manly  affection,  is  reaching  out  her  slight  arms  to  the  help 
of  her  tired  lover  as  he  struggles  up  the  shore.  It  may  be 
said  of  the  marble  group,  that  its  time  is  that  succeeding  the 
first  enraptured  meeting,  when  the  eager  expectancy,  the 
moment  of  welcome,  with  its  loving  abandon ,  had  given 
place  to  the  sense  of  safety,  of  possession,  almost  of  repose. 
But  to  me,  Hero  seems,  if  not  cold,  comparatively  insensible. 
Her  nature  is  wanting  in  fire  and  strength,  and,  despite  her 
name,  she  is  not  heroic.  That  breast  was  never  ‘  shaken  by 
a  storm  of  sighs.’  Those  lips  were  never  parted  in  keen, 
impatient  expectation,  or  quivered  with  foolish  griefs,  and 
sweet,  irrepressible  emotion.  Those  eyes  were  never  cast 
down  in  nameless  dread,  and  strange,  sudden  shame,  or  up¬ 
turned  in  supplicating  inquiry.  That  calm,  clear  brow  was 
never  weighed  down  by  love’s  most,  royal  crown,  or  shad¬ 
owed  by  its  fears,  or  convulsed  by  its  sharp  anguish.  That 
face,  in  all  its  gentleness  and  still  beatitude,  is  one  we  would 
not  have  ‘the  winds  of  heaven  visit  too  roughly’  —  one  to 
which  we  would  offer  up  the  perpetual  homage  of  loving 
looks  ;  but  it  is  scarcely  in  keeping  with  that  grand  trysting- 
place  beneath  the  stars  and  the  night-clouds,  amid  the  winds 
and  beside  the  flood.  And  she  is  no  mate  for  the  bold  and 
venturous  Leander,  whose  fiery  heart  kept  off  the  chill  of 
the  waves,  as  he  clove  his  way  to  her  side,  and  who  went 
back  with  her  last  kiss  warm  on  his  parted  lips,  and  the 
touch  of  her  hand  yet  lingering  on  his  brow,  upturned  to  the 
stars. 

There  are  also  two  other  works  by  Steinhauser,  in  the 


286 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


city,  which  were  new  to  me  —  ‘The  Fisher  Boy,’  and 
4  Psyche.’  These  are  beautiful  beyond  all  praise.  The 
expression  of  concentrated  interest,  of  eager  expectation,  in 
the  face  of  the  boy,  is  wonderfully  true  to  life ;  and  the 
great  but  patient  sorrow  of  the  immortal  in  bondage  to  mor¬ 
tality,  expressed  in  the  countenance  of  the  Psyche,  sinks  to 
the  heart  of  the  gazer. 

Brackett,  the  American  sculptor,  has  taken  up  his  resi¬ 
dence  in  Philadelphia.  I  went  several  times  to  see  his 
group  of  the  4  Shipwrecked  Mother  and  Child.’  This, 
though  still  in  plaster,  is  a  work  of  rare  merit.  The 
principal  figure  is  a  woman  in  the  prime  and  glory  of 
her  beauty.  She  lies  on  the  rocks  of  the  shore  in  a  po¬ 
sition  of  exceeding  grace,  her  head  thrown  backward,  her 
right  arm  outstretched,  and  her  left  yet  tenderly  enfolding 
her  dead  babe.  She  has  been  denuded  by  the  surf,  though 
her  night-dress  is.  yet  slightly  attached  to  one  arm,  and 
lies  beneath  her.  I  suppose  there  was  an  artistic  reason 
for  this,  but  to  me  it  seemed  a  beautiful  thought  of  pity, 
this  laying  the  soft  folds  of  linen  between  her  delicate 
shoulders  and  the  hard,  cold  rock.  The  face  is  wonder¬ 
fully  beautiful  in  the  awful  repose  of  death  —  a  repose 
impossible  to  mistake  for  sleep.  There  is  death  in  every 
limb,  in  every  muscle,  in  every  line  of  that  grand  figure. 
There  is  something  indescribably  mournful  and  expressive 
in  the  fall  of  the  head,  and  the  drift  of  the  long,  wavy 
hair.  Here  alone  were  told  the  whole  tragic  story.  To 
me,  the  pathos  of  this  work  was  in  the  principal  figure 
alone  —  I  mean  in  the  woman,  apart  from  any  motherly 
or  wifely  relations.  The  dead  infant  was  a  pitiful  sight 
indeed,  but  the  wreck  was  the  going  down  into  the  (Jeep  of 
that  fair  woman-life,  so  richly  freighted  with  mature  and 
perfect  loveliness. 

But,  though  mournful  beyond  what  words  may  tell,  there 
is  a  beautiful  fitness  in  such  a  death,  for  one  of  God’s  most 
glorious  creatures.  There  is  grandeur  in  the  thought,  that 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


287 


such  beauty,  unwasted  by  disease  and  undarkened  by  sor¬ 
row,  should  yield  itself  to  that  ‘  mighty  minister  of  Death,’ 
the  Sea. 

How  meet  a  place  for  a  form  of  such  majesty  to  lie  in 
state !  On  the  lone  shore,  with  the  stars  for  holy  lights,  and 
with  the  solemn  requiem  of  winds  and  waves  sounding 
around  her  rocky  bier  ! 

I  once  spent  a  twilight  hour  in  gazing  on  this  group. 
Then  my  imagination  conjured  up  the  doomed  vessel,  driv¬ 
ing  on,  and  on  before  the  tempest — the  dash  against  the 
rocks  —  the  parting  of  the  timbers  —  then  a  white  form  on 
the  wreck,  clasping  a  babe  to  her  bosom  —  her  plunge  into 
the  midnight  deep  —  the  brief  struggle  with  the  flood  —  the 
last  agony  of  the  mother’s  heart  —  till  those  forms  before 
me  grew  awfully  human  —  were  indeed  a  dead  woman  and 
her  poor  babe,  cast  up  by  the  relenting  waves,  and  lying 
there,  so  fearfully  white  and  cold,  with  their  still,  damp 
faces  upturned  to  a  stormy  sky  !  The  gathering  darkness 
seemed  shadows  flung  from  overhanging  rocks,  and  nothing 
was  wanting  to  complete  the  sad  illusion,  but  the  roar  of 
the  far  deep,  the  dash  of  the  near  surf,  and  the  rush  and 
howl  of  winds. 

I  felt,  when  looking  on  this  noble  group,  a  patriotic  pride 
in  the  fact  that  its  creator  was  an  American  —  a  young 
man,  self-taught,  and  one  who  has  never  even  wintered  in 
Italy.  I  earnestly  hope  that  he  may,  ere  long,  be  able  to  do 
himself  justice  and  his  country  honor,  by  putting  this  his 
noblest  work  into  marble.  Mr.  Brackett  is  as  successful  in 
the  real  as  in  the  ideal.  His  busts  are  admirable.  I  was 
particularly  struck  by  one  of  Longfellow,  a  perfect  likeness  ; 
and  one,  just  finished,  of  the  young  poet,  Boker  —  a  fine 
intellectual  head,  and  a  face  of  Grecian  beauty. 

I  was  much  pleased  with  one  of  Winner’s  latest  pictures 
— Christ  Messing  little  Children.  There  is  every  variety  of 
infantine  loveliness  in  those  rosy,  chubby,  curly-headed  little 
ones,  who  crowd  about  the  Saviour  with  the  almost  divine 


288 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


instincts  of  childhood;  and  of  the  group  of  young  mothers. 
—  all  are  beautiful,  with  the  richness  and  ripeness  of  East¬ 
ern  beauty.  But  perhaps  there  is  a  little  too  much  goi- 
geousness  of  attire,  a  display  of  oriental  magnificence 
scarcely  fitted  to  the  scene. 

It  is  hardly  to  be  supposed  that  such  patrician  dames 
would  follow  *  the  meek  and  lowly  Jesus,’  to  crave  his 
blessing  on  their  babes.  We  have  hardly  thought  of  the 
little  ones  themselves  as  young  sprigs  of  Jewish  aristocracy, 
pretty  as  angels,  and  delicate  as  fairies,  but  as  the  children 
of  the  poor — players  by  the  wayside  —  sleepers  in  the  sun¬ 
shine —  swarthy  and  ragged  little  urchins,  perhaps  —  born 
to  hard  fare  and  rough  usage  —  small  travellers  on  a  rugged 
road,  and  so  much  the  more  needing  that  gracious  benedic¬ 
tion  which  rested  softly  on  their  innocent  brows,  and  en¬ 
tered  into  their  unconscious  spirits  with  a  divine  power  and 
vitality  never  to  fail  or  die  out,  but  to  bear  them  through 
temptation  and  want,  to  make  them  strong  to  struggle 
against  the  world,  and  patient  in  waiting  and  long  endur¬ 
ance. 

Here  the  figure  of  Christ  is  divinely  beautiful,  if  not  quite 
divine.  1  was  impressed  with  the  countenance.  True,  it 
did  not  express  pure  power  —  power  in  the  abstract;  it  was 
more  tender  than  majestic.  Its  divinity  was  that  of  love 
alone,  but  love  in  itself  illimitable  and  omnipotent.  That 
mild  hazel  eye  seemed  softened  and  brightened  by  memo¬ 
ries  of  His  pure  childhood,  and  about  those  lips  seemed 
hovering  the  loving  spirit  of  his  human  mother.  It  was  an 
eye  to  attract  little  children,  and  the  tenderness  of  those  lips 
seemed  to  invite  the  young  timid  mother  to  draw  near,  and 
ask  their  benignant  benedictions  on  the  babe  at  her  bosom. 

Adieu. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


289 


LETTER  XIX. 

New  Brighton,  Jan.  22d,  1850. 

In  your  paper  of  the  19th,  I  notice  a  reply  from  Mr. 
Saxe,  to  a  brief  criticism  of  mine,  of  a  Satire  upon  Lite¬ 
rary  Women,  contained  in  a  witty  poem  from  his  pen,  en¬ 
titled  ‘  The  Times ,’  lately  read  before  the  Boston  Literary 
Mercantile  Association. 

The  note  which  you  publish  is  certainly  written  in  an 
excellent  spirit,  and  1  feel  not  a  little  rebuked  for  the  some¬ 
what  sharp  tone  of  my  own  article.  I  was  doubtless  too 
severe,  perhaps  too  strong,  for  the  slight  occasion.  I  now 
believe  that  Mr.  Saxe  wrote  lightly  and  carelessly,  and  that 
those  passages  which  displeased  me,  and  still  displease  me 
—  those  passages  so  unworthy  the  poet  and  the  man  —  if 
taken  literally  and  in  earnest,  are  not  the  result  of  his  set¬ 
tled  thought;  do  not  indicate  his  habitual  feeling.  I  simply 
take  his  word  for  this;  for  I  remember  him  as  having  a 
frank  and  manly  face,  an  open  brow,  stamped  with  truth,  as 
well  as  with  intellect. 

At  the  time  of  my  writing,  I  was  feeling  peculiarly  sensi¬ 
tive  in  regard  to  my  womanly,  as  well  as  literary  position. 
The  tone  of  the  lectures  of  Mr.  Dana  had  troubled  and 
discouraged  me.  I  said:  'If  so  speak  and  write  our  poets, 
surely  the  age  is  on  the  backward  line  of  march.’  I  had 
become  impatient  and  indignant  for  my  sex,  thus  lectured 
to,  preached  at,  and  satirized  eternally.  I  had  grown 
weary  of  hearing  woman  told  that  her  sole  business  here, 
the  highest,  worthiest  aims  of  her  existence  were  to  be 
loving,  lovable,  feminine  ;  to  win  thus  a  lover  and  a  lord, 
whom  she  might  glorify  abroad,  and  make  comfortable  at 
home. 

We  have  had  enough  of  this.  Man  is  not  best  qualified 
to  mark  out  woman’s  life-path.  He  knows,  indeed,  what  he 
desires  her  to  be,  but  he  does  not  yet  understand  all  that 
God  and  nature  require  of  her.  Woman  should  not  be 

25 


290 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


made  up  of  love  alone ;  the  other  attributes  of  her  being 
should  not  be  dwarfed,  that  this  may  have  a  large,  unnatural 
growth.  Hers  should  be  a  distinct  individuality  —  an  inde¬ 
pendent  moral  existence  —  or,  at  least,  the  dependence 
should  be  mutual.  Woman  can  best  judge  of  woman,  of  her 
wants,  capacities,  aspirations  and  powers.  She  can  best 
speak  to  her  on  the  life  of  the  affections,  on  the  loves  of  her 
heart,  on  the  peculiar  joys  and  sorrows  of  her  lot.  She  can 
best  teach  her  to  be  true  to  herself —  to  her  high  nature,  to 
her  brave  spirit  —  and  then,  indeed,  shall  she  be  constant  in 
her  love,  and  faithful  to  her  duties,  to  all,  even  to  the  most 
humble.  Woman  can  strengthen  woman  for  the  life  of  self- 
sacrifice,  of  devotion,  of  ministration,  of  much  endurance, 
which  lies  before  her. 

A  woman  of  intellect  and  right  feeling  would  never 
dream  of  pointing  out  the  weak  and  unfilial  Desdemona 
as  an  example  to  her  sex  in  this  age  ;  would  never  dare  to 
hold  up  as  4  our  destined  end  and  aim,’  a  one  love,  however 
romantic  and  poetical,  which  might  be  so  selfishly  sought, 
and  so  unscrupulously  secured. 

Thank  Heaven,  woman  herself  is  awaking  to  a  percep¬ 
tion  of  the  causes  which  have  hitherto  impeded  her  free 
and  perfect  development ;  which  have  shut  her  out  from 
the  large  experiences,  the  wealth  and  fulness  of  the  life  to 
which  she  was  called.  She  is  beginning  to  feel,  and  to  cast 
off  the  bonds  which  oppress  her;  many  of  them,  indeed, 
self-imposed,  and  many  gilded  and  rarely  wrought,  covered 
with  flowers  and  delicate  tissues,  but  none  the  less  bonds ; 
bonds  upon  the  speech,  upon,  the  spirit,  upon  the  life. 

There  surely  is  a  great  truth  involved  in  this  question  of 
4  Woman’s  Rights,’  and  agitated  as  it  may  be,  with  wisdom 
and  mildness,  or  with  rashness  and  the  bold,  high  spirit 
which  shocks  and  startles  at  the  first,  good  will  come  out 
of  it  eventually  —  great  good  —  and  the  women  of  the  next 
age  will  be  the  stronger  and  the  freer,  ay,  and  the  happier, 
for  the  few  brave  spirits  who  now  stand  up  fearlessly  for 
unpopular  truth  against  the  world. 


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291 


I  know  that  I  expose  myself  to  the  charge  of  being  un¬ 
feminine  in  feeling —  of  ullraism.  Well,  better  that  than 
conservatism,  though  conservatism  were  safei  and  moie 
respectable.  Senselessness  is  always  safety,  and  a  mummy 

is  a  thoroughly  respectable  personage. 

But  to  return  to  Mr.  Saxe.  Our  poet  satirized  lathei 
keenly  literary  women,  as  a  class,  in  the  poem  on  which  I 
remarked,  but  afterward,  in  his  communication  to  youi 
paper,  most  politely  intimates  that  he  excepts  me,  as  one  of 
the  4  women  of  real  talent.’  But  I  will  not  be  excepted.  I 
stand  in  the  ranks,  liable  to  all  the  penalties  of  the  calling 
exposed  to  the  hot  shot  of  satire,  and  the  stinging  anows 
of  ridicule.  I  will  not  be  received  as  an  exception,  wheie 
.full  justice  is  not  done  to  the  class  to  which  I  belong. 

Suppose  now,  that  I  should  write  a  poem,  to  deliver  be¬ 
fore  some  4  Women’s  Bights  Lonvention,  oi  Ladies  Lite¬ 
rary  Association,’  on  4  The  Times,’  which  should  come 
down  sharp  and  heavy  on  the  literary  men ,  of  the  day,  for 
usurping  the  delicate  employ  by  right  and  nature  the  peculiar 
province  of  woman,  4  the  weaker  vessel  ’  —  for  neglecting 
their  shops,  their  fields,  their  counting-houses  and  their 
interesting  families,  and  wasting  theii  piecious  time  in 
writing  love-tales,  4  doleful  ditties,’  and  4  distressful  strains,’ 
for  the  magazines  —  for  flirting  with  the  muse,  while  their 
wives  are  wanting  shoes  —  or  perpetrating  puns,  while  theii 
children  cry  for  4  buns  !  ’  Suppose  that,  pointing  every  line 
with  wit,  I  should  hold  them  up  to  contempt,  as  careless, 
improvident,  lovers  of  pleasure,  given  to  self-indulgence  — 
taking  their  Helicon  more  than  dashed  with  gin  —  seekers 
after  notoriety,  eccentric  in  their  habits,  and  unmanly  in 
all  their  tastes !  After  this,  should  I  very  handsomely  make 
an  exception  in  favor  of  Mr.  Saxe,  would  he  feel  compli¬ 
mented  ? 

As  far  as  I  have  known  literary  women,  and  as  fin  as 
they  have  been  made  known  to  us  in  literary  biogiaphy,  the 
unwomanly  and  unamiable,  the  poor  wives,  and  daughteis, 


292 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


and  sisters,  have  been  the  rare  exceptions.  I  mean  not  alone 
‘  women  of  genius,’  but  would  include  those  of  mere  talent 
—  of  mediocre  talent  even,  devoted  to  letters  as  a  profession, 
and  who  by  their  estimable  characters  and  blameless  lives 
are  an  honor  to  their  calling. 

I  believe  that  for  one  woman  whom  the  pursuits  of  lit¬ 
erature,  the  ambition  of  authorship,  and  the  love  of  fame 
have  rendered  unfit  for  home  life,  a  thousand  have  been 
made  thoroughly  undomestic  by  poor  social  strivings,  the 
follies  of  fashion,  and  the  intoxicating  distinction  which 
mere  personal  beauty  confers.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XX. 

New  Brighton,  March,  J850. 

I  have  been  reading  Browning  much  of  late.  This  poet 
has  been  so  little  read  in  our  countrv,  as  to  be  best  known 
to  many  as  the  husband  of  Elizabeth  Barrett,  but  abroad  he 
has  a  higher  distinction,  a  greatness  which  even  hers  cannot 
overshadow  ;  and  there,  he  need  not  fear  of  being  pointed 
out  c  as  the  man  whom  Ninon  married.’  He  is  the  one  to 
whom  Landor,  in  a  most  beautiful  sonnet,  paid  that  splendid 
compliment  — 

‘  Shakspeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world’s  ; 

Therefore,  on  him  no  speech  !  and  brief  for  thee, 
Browning !  ’ 

One  is  almost  afraid  to  venture  a  word,  after  that. 

This  poet  is,  I  believe,  a  great  problem  to  the  critics. 
One  who  would  receive  the  high  imaginings  and  divinations 
of  genius  by  some  direct  and  easy  process,  and  through  a 
clear  and  pleasant  medium,  would  be  perplexed  and  half- 
angered  by  him  at  the  first  reading,  at  least.  There  is  often 
about  his  poetry  a  dimness  and  a  density  which  result  from 
the  depth  of  his  thought  and  the  affluence  of  his  fancy.  His 
darkest  places  are,  after  all,  ‘  sun-dropped  shades,’  where 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


293 


the  beauty  is  deeper  and  richer  for  the  partial  obscurity. 
His  style  is  often  singularly  involved,  dreamy  and  mystical ; 
but  he  is  never  meaningless.  Sometimes,  amid  his  most 
unformed  and  mystical  language,  comes  a  happy,  lucid 
expression,  a  bright  rift,  a  sudden  revealing  of  heaven 
through  clouds  and  shadows  —  verbal  felicities,  pleasant 
surprises  of  humor,  delicious  turns  of  sentiment,  and  soft 
yet  masterly  touches  of  pathos,  which  would  summon  smiles 
to  the  sternest  lip,  or  from  the  coldest  and  most  philosophical 
heart  roll  away  the  stone  which  shuts  down  the  fountain  of 
tears. 

Browning  has  been  called  unmusical,  and,  judged  by  com¬ 
mon  rules,  I  suppose  his  verse  lacks  melody  ;  but  for  me, 
there  is  always  in  it  a  sort  of  spiritual  harmony,  which  over¬ 
rules  the  mere  word-sound,  and  renders  him  one  of  the  most 
musical  of  poets. 

For  all  Browning’s  power,  and  learning,  and  strongly 
marked  peculiarities,  much  of  his  poetry  seems  to  me  of  a 
most  natural  and  primitive  kind.  It  is  simply  poetic  reverie, 
and  given  in  the  dreamy,  diffuse,  inexpressive  language  of 
reverie,  every  word  obediently  written  down  as  it  slid  from 
the  murmuring  lips  of  his  muse,  without  question  and  without 
hesitation.  In  such,  nothing  is  direct  or  connected,  but  all 
wandering  and  distracted,  and  the  reader,  to  comprehend  the 
poet,  must,  by  some  process,  place  himself  in  a  similar  som- 
nambulatory  state  —  must  reverize  with  him,  and  go  on 
weaving  almost  invisible  threads  of  thought,  through  an 
infinitude  of  words. 

c  Paracelsus  ’  is  unreadable  to  the  mass  ;  but  the  enthusi¬ 
astic  student  receives  it  almost  as  a  new  revelation  of  poetry. 
Yet  it  is  not  a  poem  proper,  neither  is  it  a  regular  drama ; 
but  a  long,  winding,  subtle,  sweet,  and  varied  talk.  It  is 
full  of  grand  conceptions,  exquisite  fancies  —  sometimes 
only  given  in  luminous  hints,  startling  intimations,  and 
sometimes  diffused  and  elaborated  almost  to  weakness  and 
folly.  Now  comes  a  stranger  thought  of  giant  proportions, 
25* 


294 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


almost  undraped  and  wholly  unadorned,  followed  by  some 
little  old  friend  of  ours,  wrapt  about  and  overloaded  by  a 
new  and  gorgeous  dress.  Who  can  doubt  but  that  this 
poem,  peculiar,  and  in  many  passages  powerful  as  it  is, 
would  be  greatly  bettered  if  compressed  into  half  its  present 
compass?  While  our  poet  spreads  his  poetry  over  so  wide 
an  expanse,  and  while  its  waters  are  often  so  unfathomable 
or  unclear,  we  think  it  will  remain  a  luxury  for  the  few. 
This  is  an  age  of  preoccupation  and  hurry  ;  and  not  many  of 
us  can  stay  to  study  out  the  most  solemn  sounding  of  oracles, 
if  given  in  an  unknown  tongue,  or  turn  aside  from  direct 
and  pleasant  paths  to  explore  wild  forests,  of  however  magni¬ 
ficent  growth,  into  which  open  few  clear  and  inviting  vistas. 
‘  Paracelsus,’  and  indeed  most  of  the  poetry  of  Browning, 
is  to  be  studied,  as  we  have  said.  And  alas  !  the  many  do 
not  study  ;  thus  this  poet  can  hardly  be  to  them  priest  or 
interpreter. 

When  Browning  is  awake,  he  is  alive  all  over ;  —  witness 
some  of  his  4  Dramatic  Lyrics,’  such  as  4  Cavalier  Tunes,’ 
6  Count  Gismond,’  4  Incident  in  the  French  Camp,’  4  How 
they  brought  the  good  news  from  Ghent  to  Aix.’ 

I  suppose  that  4  Paracelsus  ’  is  esteemed  the  most  powerful 
work  of  Browning’s  genius,  and  is  certainly  very  great,  for 
the  thought  it  embodies,  and  its  many  magnificent  bursts  of 
poetry. 

The  most  remarkable  thing  in  it,  in  my  estimation,  is  the 
beautiful  allegorical  poem  introduced  into  Part  IV., — 

4  Over  the  sea  our  galleys  went.’ 

But  I  love  most  4  The  Blot  in  the  ’Scutcheon.’  This  is 
a  beautiful  drama — rapid  in  action,  clear  and  musical  in 
language,  and  most  touching  and  mournful  in  its  story.  It 
inculcates  a  heavenly  lesson  of  charity,  and  displays  a  won¬ 
derful  knowledge  of  the  human  heart  —  of  woman’s  heart. 
I  have  read  it  many  times,  and  always  with  intense  admira¬ 
tion,  with  irrepressible  tears.  4  Paracelsus  ’  and  the  like 


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295 


labored  poems  seem  emanations  alone  from  the  large, 
unwieldy ,  if  such  a  term  may  be  used,  intellectuality  of  the 
poet ;  but  in  the  sweet  and  mournful  story  of  Mildred  and 
Mertoun  beats  his  warm  human  heart. 

4  Colombe’s  Birthday,’  *  Pippa  Passes,’  and  1  The  Flight  of 
the  Duchess,’  are  also  very  fine,  but  I  cannot  say  that  I  like 
‘  A  Soul’s  Tragedy,’  or  the  play,  ‘  King  Victor  and  King 
Charles.’  The  impression  left  by  these  is  neither  deep  nor 
altogether  pleasant. 

Yet  Browning  is  a  wonderful  poet,  though  speaking 
oftener  to  our  intellects  than  our  hearts,  —  and  here  I  come 
to  remark  upon  the  want  which  I  perceive  in  him  —  a  lack 
of  ready  sympathies  with  his  age  and  his  race.  He  is  not  a 
poet  as  Burns,  and  Goldsmith,  and  Shelley,  and  Elliott  were 
poets —  as  Longfellow,  and  Lowell,  and  Whittier,  are  poets. 
We  recognise  in  his  poetry  no  earnest  progressive  spirit  — 
no  distinctness  and  intensity  of  purpose  —  no  high,  unselfish 
aim  —  in  short,  no  consecration.  He  writes  as  he  might 
write  if  man  and  the  world  had  no  need  of  him  —  if  he 
stood  alone  in  God’s  universe,  and  put  forth  his  thoughts 
as  a  tree  puts  forth  its  leaves,  in  obedience  to  an  inward 
necessity,  and  responsive  to  the  call  of  nature. 

Thus  sang  the  earliest  poets,  doubtless  ;  but  the  time  has 
come  when  mightier  influences  from  without  must  act  upon 
the  poet’s  mind,  and  holier  obligations  rest  upon  his  spirit. 

All  things  now  are  put  to  use  —  and  when  the  elements 
are  brought  into  subjection,  and  made  to  work ,  shall  the 
poet,  who  is  created  from  the  two  finer,  refuse  to  labor  with 
the  laboring  universe? — refuse  to  be  useful  as  well  as 
ornamental  ? 

The  warrior-bards  live  no  more,  and  God  gives  us  no 
longer  his  holy  prophets ;  so  it  is  that  we  now  require  of  the 
poet  more  than  they  of  old  time  — valor,  heroism,  and  the 
rapt  faith  and  far-reaching  vision  of  prophecy.  With  the 
strength  and  earnestness  which  once  swung  the  battle-axe 
and  drove  home  the  sword,  his  song  must  have  that  intense 


296 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


vitality,  that  divine  fervor  once  borrowed  from  God’s  own 
altar.  Bat  the  poet  is  not  required  to  live  so  much  in  ad¬ 
vance  of  his  age,  as  to  live  out  its  highest  and  strongest  life. 
While  his  spirit  transcends  that  of  his  fellow-men,  he  must 
stand  breast  to  breast  with  them,  in  all  the  common  sympa¬ 
thies  of  our  nature  —  in  all  the  common  sorrows  of  our  lot. 
With  the  wants,  and  wrongs,  and  woes  of  his  race  crying  to 
him  in  a  thousand  voices,  oh,  how  can  he  mistake  the  work 
to  which  he  was  called !  —  how  can  he  rest,  how  can  he  trifle, 
how  can  he  betray  his  trust ! 

The  day  of  love-sonnets,  madrigals,  quaint  conceits,  dainty 
affectations,  and  small  prettinesses  having  gone  by,  we  de¬ 
mand  in  poetry,  strength  well  directed,  and  a  large,  healthful, 
and  beneficent  life.  Though  an  ideal  realm,  inasmuch  as 
truth  and  beauty  are  therein  transfigured,  yet  profoundly  real 
must  it  be  in  its  adaptation  to  the  world’s  great  needs.  Of 
old,  the  few  danced  to  the  gay  measures  of  the  poet,  but 
now,  the  mass  labor  to  his  strong,  inspiring  strains  ;  thus  he, 
however  grand  his  genius,  who  fails  to  respond  to  this  demo¬ 
cratic  spirit  in  the  literature  of  to-day,  can  never  make  his 
home  in  the  hearts  of  the  people.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXI. 

There  are  a  few  books  lying  on  my  table,  which  should 
have  received  some  notice  long  ere  this,  and  if  you  will 
indulge  me  a  little  while,  I  will  say  my  unofficial,  and  unau- 
thoritative  say  concerning  them. 

Biographical  Essays.  By  Thomas  de  Quincey.  —  This 
is  a  most  readable  volume  ;  not  so  luminously  brilliant  as 
1  The  Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater,’  and  4  Suspiria  de 
Profundis,’  but  still  a  very  delightful  work.  De  Quincey  is 
a  writer  of  much  individuality  and  power  —  power  which 
shows  itself  more  in  brief,  glowing  passages  and  grand  out- 


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297 


bursts,  than  in  evenness  of  style  and  sustainment  of  thought. 
His  genius  is  often  more  feverish  than  vigorous  in  its  action, 
as  his  finest  imagery  seems  the  vivid  fancies  and  wild  and 
startling  conceptions  of  insanity.  Yet  these  indications  of 
a  brain  somewhat  unhealthy  and  inflamed,  so  evident  in 
‘  The  Opium  Eater/  may  scarcely  be  remarked  in  the  vol¬ 
ume  before  us.  Here  we  have  calm,  critical,  and  admirably 
appreciative  biographies  of  Shakspeare,  Pope,  Charles 
Lamb,  Goethe,  and  Schiller.  The  paper  upon  Shakspeare 
has  I  believe  been  considered  the  finest,  but  I  prefer  the  one 
on  Charles  Lamb,  perhaps  because  the  subject  comes  near¬ 
est  to  our  human  affections  and  sympathies.  Shakspeare 
is  the  autocrat  of  the  whole  wide  upper  world  of  intellect  — 
but  down  in  the  narrower  and  warmer  region  of  the  heart 
Lamb  holds  perpetual  sovereignty  —  ruling  by  our  free 
choice,  not  in  state,  but  as  playing  at  kingship,  crowned 
with  flowers,  bearing  a  holly  branch  for  a  sceptre  —  a  sort 
of  merry,  irresponsible  home-monarch,  who  may  1  call  for 
his  pipe  and  call  for  his  bowl,’  and  have  every  thing  his  own 
way.  Yet  no  less  truly  do  we  reverence  Lamb  than  Shaks¬ 
peare,  that  our  homage  takes  the  forms  of  love  and  kindly 
indulgence,  rather  than  of  awe  and  unconditional  loyalty. 
With  Lamb,  we  may  claim  fellowship  without  presumption 
— ^his  very  weaknesses  bring  us  nearer  —  his  faults  seem 
but  childlike  appeals  to  our  sympathy ;  but  who  shall  dare 
to  claim  fellowship  with  that  great,  that  almost  universal 
intelligence,  to  whom  seem  to  have  been  given  the  souls  of 
a  whole  race,  in  a  mass  !  I’  faith,  one  would  almost  as  soon 
think  of  laying  claim  to  equality  and  fraternity  with  Saturn, 
or  Jupiter,  as  with  Shakspeare,  moving  in  the  far,  high 
eternity  of  his  fame. 

The  articles  upon  Goethe  and  Schiller  are  also  very  fine. 
The  latter  of  these  great  poets  has  always  seemed  to  me  far 
more  human  than  the  first.  Between  the  genius  of  the  two 
there  seems  all  the  difference  that  there  is  between  a  grand 
display  of  Northern  lights  and  the  clear,  vivifying  glow  of 


298 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


southern  sunlight ;  between  the  men,  the  difference  there 
was  between  the  Greek  god,  cold,  irresponsible,  self-cen¬ 
tred,  holding  himself  apart  amid  Olympian  grandeur 
and  the  Greek  hero,  brave  and  passionate,  leading  the  bold 
spirits  and  ruling  the  fiery  hearts  of  his  time.  Goethe  s 
genius  was  the  more  comprehensive,  perhaps  —  that  of 
Schiller  was  the  more  intense.  If  Goethe’s  was  the  higher 
intellect,  Schiller’s  was  the  deeper  heart. 

True  Stories  from  History  and  Biography.  By  Na¬ 
thaniel  Hawthorne.  —  This  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  books 
of  the  season  —  quite  at  the  head  of  the  juvenile  publica¬ 
tions.  It  is  a  collection  of  most  interesting  stories,  told  in 
a  style  simple  and  direct,  yet  singularly  picturesque  and 
poetical.  It  is  beautiful  to  see  how  the  genius  of  the 
author  here  comes  forth  from  the  temple  of  that  art,  with 
him  a  mystery  and  a  worship  —  from  its  lofty  arches,  its 
resounding  aisles,  its  grand  harmonies  and  gorgeous  glooms 
—  comes  out  upon  the  open  lawn  to  smile  lovingly  upon 
childhood,  join  in  its  innocent  sports,  and  hold  sweet  com¬ 
munion  with  its  fresh  and  simple  spirit.  Yet  we  should 
not  wonder  at  this  as  a  phenomenon,  for  it  is  truest  nature. 
Genius  should  be  but  a  large  childhood,  a  perpetual  renew¬ 
ing  of  life  from  its  earliest  and  purest  fountain,  but  a 
nobler  growth,  a  sublimer  expression  of  the  innocent  trust, 
and  the  clear-eyed  truth  which  the  infant  soul  gives  forth  in 
its  first  looks  upon  the  world.  It  is  said  that  in  our  life  of 
change,  freshness  and  bloom  cannot  endure  forever,  and 
we  know  that  the  fruits  of  knowledge  attain  to  ripeness  and 
sweetness  through  bitterness  and  acidity  —  but,  while  com¬ 
mon  trees  have  their  season  of  profuse  flowering  and  then 
fl[ng  away  their  blooms  and  wait  unadorned  for  the  time  of 
ripeness,  the  gorgeous  tropical  tree  is  at  once  budding  and 
blossoming,  breathing  its  sweetness  toward  heaven,  and 
dropping  its  golden  fruit  to  the  earth.  Such  should  be  the 
type  of  genius  —  never  stripped  of  verdure  or  discrowned  of 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


299 


beauty ;  ever  putting  forth,  in  fair  and  glowing  forms,  new 
manifestations  of  the  primeval  life,  bearing  the  flush  and 
freshness  of  feeling,  side  by  side  with  the  ripe  results  of 
experience. 

I  have  also  been  reading  a  volume-  to  which  I  cannot  do 
justice_here,  but  of  which  I  must  speak.  This  contains  the 
biography  and  the  writings  of  the  late  Mrs.  Mayo,  formerly 
Sarah  Edgarton  —  a  fine  poet  and  a  most  noble  woman. 
Never  in  my  reading,  or  in  real  life,  have  I  met  with  a 
more  exalted  and  lovable  character.  It  has  been  a  beauti¬ 
ful  study  to  me  to  contemplate  a  spirit  of  such  tranquil 
strength,  such  depths  of  purity,  such  childlike  tenderness, 
such  divine  charity,  such  wondrous  faith  in  God. 

Mrs.  Mayo  possessed  genius  of  a  high  order ;  but  her 
early  death,  sadly  for  us,  defeated  its  perfect  development. 
Her  few  poems  are  not  alone  marked  by  great  sweetness 
and  purity,  but  by  unusual  vitality  and  power.  I  know  of 
no  woman  of  the  age  capable  of  writing  a  grander  poem 
than  hers  on  4  The  Supremacy  of  God,5  —  or  one  of  deeper 
meanings  than  her  ballad  of  4  Udollo.’  Yet  no  one  can 
fully  understand  her  poetry  without  knowing  something  of 
her  personally  —  of  the  peculiar  circumstances  of  her 
literary  and  private  life.  This  knowledge  may  be  gained 
through  an  interesting  and  touching  biography,  by  her  hus¬ 
band,  and  selections  from  her  admirable  letters,  contained 
in  the  beautiful  volume  of  which  I  have  spoken.  Here  is 
told  the  simple  but  impressive  story  of  an  angelic  spirit 
during  its  brief  mortal  bondage.  While  the  morning  dew 
yet  lay  on  the  fields  of  her  earthly  labor,  before  her  heart 
had  failed,  or  her  hand  grown  weary,  she  heard  the  sum¬ 
mons  of  her  Father,  and  yielding  a  meek  obedience,  she 
left  us  at  that  call,  saying — ‘I  have  work  to  do  in 
heaven !  ’ 

Oh,  is  it  not  blessed  thus  to  go,  —  taking  a  fresh  heart 
and  an  unwounded  spirit  into  the  life  of  the  angels  ? 

Adieu. 


300 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


LETTER  XXII. 

New  Brighton,  June  1st,  1850. 

I  know  that  I  owe  you  an  apology  for  my  long  neglect 
of  my  duty  as  a  correspondent.  The  truth  is,  that  my  mind 
this  Spring  has  been  in  melancholy  unison  with  the  season  — 
slow,  cold  and  unproductive.  I  have  never  felt  such  an 
utter  disinclination  for  all  sorts  of  literary  effort,  even  for 
what  has  usually  seemed  a  mere  recreation  —  letter-writing. 

Such  a  chill,  changeable,  tantalizing,  aggravating,  abom¬ 
inable  Spring  as  we  have  had  West  of  the  mountains!  It 
has  been  enough  to  touch  the  temper  and  task  the  patience 
of  saints,  if  we  had  any  such  among  us.  It  is  now  the 
first  of  June,  and  we  are  not  yet  able  to  dispense  with  fires. 
I  am  seated  before  one  this  morning,  for  the  air  is  chill 
though  the  mocking  sun  shines  overhead.  When  will  the 
golden,  glorious  Summer  come  in  reality,  with  all  its  fervid 
brightness  and  luxuriant  bloom  and  verdure  ?  My  heart  is 
weary  with  waiting  and  sick  with  frequent  disappointment. 
I  am  a  very  child  in  my  impatience  for  the  coming  of  rose¬ 
time.  I  am  almost  ready  to  tear  open  the  shy,  reluctant  buds, 
so  pertinaciously  shut  against  the  ungenial  airs,  as  the  warm 
hearts  of  the  wise  coldly  close  themselves  when  there  is 
breathed  around  them  the  atmosphere  of  an  unfriendly, 
though  smiling  presence.  But  I  suppose  —  I  have  faith  to 
believe  that  warm,  even  hot  weather  will  come  yet  —  some¬ 
time  in  August,  perhaps.  But  it  remains  to  be  proved.  We 
have  had  little  rain,  but  severe  frosts.  That  respectable, 
well-known  and  most  reliable  personage,  ‘  the  oldest  inhabi¬ 
tant,’  declares  that  there  have  been  few  such  seasons  within 
his  far-reaching  recollection. 

But  I  for  one  am  resolved  to  adopt  Mahomet’s  policy,  and 
go  to  the  Summer  if  the  Summer  will  not  come  to  me.  I 
think  I  shall  be  most  likely  to  meet  her  in  the  Capital-city. 
Surely  that  must  be  a  warm  climate  where  the  people  are 
always  in  hot  water.  I  think  that  the  gallery  of  the  Senate 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


301 


would  be  a  comfortable  place  —  right  over  the  great  govern¬ 
ment  engine,  which  is  steaming  and  creaking  and  pulling 
and  backing  in  desperate  efforts  to  get  over  the  Proviso- 
bar. 

My  leaving  home  for  six  or  eight  months  has  now  become 
an  old  story.  I  fancy  that  it  impresses  my  friends  less  than 
formerly.  I  think  I  shall  somehow  slide  away  and  scarcely 
be  missed.  I  did  flatter  myself,  however,  that  there  was  an 
expression  of  dismay  and  apprehension  in  the  handsome 
face  of  my  dog  Tom,  when  the  other  day  he  found  me  pack¬ 
ing  a  trunk.  It  said  most  plainly  to  my  eye  —  ‘  No  more 
pleasant  rambles  —  and  an  alarming  reduction  of  my  daily 
lations !  They  tell  me  I  am  too  indulgent  —  and  that  my  fa¬ 
vorite  is  getting  fat  and  effeminate,  and  quite  unfitted  for  field- 
service.  Alas,  the  poor  fellow  will  have  time  to  grow  lean, 
under  the  new  regime ,  and  by  much  mourning  for  his  lost 
mistress  ;  unless,  indeed,  the  theory  of  Sir  John  Falstaffis  as 
true  of  dogs  as  of  men,  and  ‘  sighing  and  grief’  shall  add 
to,  rather  than  diminish  the  weight  and  circumference  of  the 
unfortunate  subject. 

I  can’t  say  that  my  approaching  departure  throws  a  shadow 
around  my  home.  The  lilacs  have  given  over  blooming, 
and  the  violets  have  a  downcast  look  ;  but  I  am  scarcely  vain 
enough  to  suppose  it  is  for  sorrow.  There  will  be  a  flare-up 
with  the  peonies,  and  a  general  blow-out  among  the  roses ; 
but  I  will  not  say  for  indignation  at  the  event  referred  to ; 
and  as  for  the  whole  vulgar  herd  of  weeds,  I  fancied,  as  I 
left  the  flower-garden  this  morning  after  my  usual  hour’s 
work,  that  they  nodded  to  one  another  pertly  and  joyfully, 
as  though  anticipating  a  jolly  good  time  of  it. 


26 


Adieu. 


302 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


LETTER  XXIII. 

[LETTERS  FROM  THE  CAPITAL  TO  THE  PHILADELPHIA  SATURDAY  EVENING  POST.] 

Washington,  June  15th,  1850. 

This  is  my  first  visit  to  Washington,  and  it  was  not  with¬ 
out  emotion  that  I  found  myself  in  the  gallery  of  the  Senate 
Chamber,  looking  down  on  ‘  the  assembled  wisdom  of  the 
nation’  —  to  use  a  novel  expression.  Webster  and  Clay  I 
had  seen  before,  yet  I  should  have  singled  them  out,  I  think, 
had  I  not  known  them.  The  unapproachable  grandeur  of 
Webster’s  head  —  the  imperious  eye  of  Clay — the  Wel- 
lingtonian  front  of  Benton,  who  could  mistake  ? 

There  was,  that  morning,  an  animated  discussion  on  the 
Compromise  Bill.  Clay,  Webster,  Benton,  Seward  and 
Foote  were  among  the  speakers.  Mr.  Clay  was  suffering 
from  recent  indisposition,  but  he  spoke  with  great  energy 
and  with  keen  flashings  of  his  wonderful  eye.  It  cannot  be 
denied,  however,  that  he  oftener  parried  the  attacks  of  his 
opponents  with  wit,  than  met  them  in  argument.  At  one 
time,  when  Bentpn  was  thundering  out  a  severe  passage 
directed  especially  to  him,  he  bent  forward  and  placed  his 
hand  to  his  ear,  in  the  attitude  of  listening,  saying  —  ‘  Speak 
a  little  louder !  ’  But  ere  the  close  of  the  debate,  this  early 
morning  coolness  forsook  the  distinguished  senator — there 
were  some  keener  passes  between  him  and  Benton,  and  both 
the  honorable  and  venerable  senators  seemed  somewhat  obli¬ 
vious  of  the  little  proprieties  naturally  to  be  expected  of  such 
‘  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  signiors.’ 

Webster’s  manner  in  speaking  had  a  sort  of  solemn  heavi¬ 
ness,  which  may  have  been  impressive,  but  which  certainly 
was  not  inspiring.  I  was  surprised  to  find  Senator  Foote  a 
slight,  genial-looking,  elderly  gentleman.  I  had  supposed 
him  to  be  a  younger  and  a  more  fiery-visaged  individual. 
He  is  a  most  restless  statesman  —  seems  afflicted  with  a 
sort  of  patriotic  form  of  the  dance  St.  Vitus  —  is  on  his  feet 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


303 


with  every  opportunity,  pouring  forth  4  burning  fluids  ’  of 
speech  and  inflammable  gases  of  Southern  democracy.  In 
strong  contrast  was  the  calm,  self-possessed  Yankee  cool¬ 
ness  of  Seward,  who  never  moves  from  his  positions,  nor 
suffers  himself  to  be  4  riled  ’  in  the  least.  Gen.  Cass  has  a 
good,  easy,  uncle-ish  appearance,  and  his  face  has  a  rather 
dull,  after-dinner  expression,  not  indicative  of  transcendent 
abilities,  but  which  probably  does  him  injustice.  Senator 
Houston  amuses  me  greatly  as  I  look  down  upon  him  from 
the  gallery.  He  sits  at  his  desk  and  whittles  diligently  and 
deliberately  by  the  hour,  very  much  with  the  air  and  expres¬ 
sion  of  some  worthy,  complacent,  stout,  spectacled  old  lady 
at  her  knitting  —  pretty  well  satisfied  with  things  in  general, 
and  thinking  of  nothing  in  particular.  Now  and  then,  he 
pauses  to  take  a  tresh  piece  of  timber,  or  sharpen  his  knife, 
as  said  worthy  old  lady  might  pause  to  take  up  a  stitch,  or 
regale  herself  with  a  pinch  of  snuff.  Apropos  of  snuff,  I 
perceive  that  most  of  the  honorable  Senators  are  up  to 
that.  A  Whig  may  be  seen  passing  his  box  to  a  Democrat, 
who  passes  it  to  a  Southern  ultraist,  who  passes  it  to  a 
Northern  4  incendiary  ’  —  and  all  three  forget  their  sectional 
differences  in  a  delightful  concert  of  sternutation.  No  busi¬ 
ness  is  too  grave,  no  speaker  too  eloquent  to  be  4  sneezed 
at.’ 

Mr.  Clay  has  a  peculiarly  gracious  manner  of  acknowledg¬ 
ing  snuff-box  courtesies,  and  a  peculiarly  graceful  way  of 
taking  a  pinch  ;  but  I  do  not  perceive  that  he  sneezes  more 
harmoniously  than  his  humbler  fellow-citizens. 

I  suppose  that  beauty  is  not  precisely  the  forte  of  the 
Senate  of  the  United  States  —  so  trust  I  commit  no  offence 
when  I  say  that  a  rotundity  of  figure  slightly  transcending 
the  lines  of  grace  and  beauty,  and  a  substantial,  democratic 
plainness  of  feature  constitute  the  prevailing  style  in  that 
august  assembly.  The  President,  Mr.  Fillmore,  is  a  hand¬ 
some  man,  however,  and  Col.  Benton  is  one  of  the  most 
impressive  men  of  the  Senate  in  person,  air,  and  manner. 


304  GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 

/  # 

He  looks  the  perfect  embodiment  of  a  great,  inflexible,  un¬ 
tiring  will,  the  power  of  which  one  can  only  doubt  when 
the  eye  is  turned  to  the  other  side  of  the  chamber,  where 
sits  his  watchful,  skilful,  irresistible  opponent,  with  the  old 
fire  of  his  wondrous  intellect  unquenched,  and  the  old 
strength  of  his  Napoleonic  Will  unbroken. 

A  most  remarkable  person  is  Mr.  Soule,  of  Louisiana. 
His  figure  is  rather  slight,  but  firmly  and  finely  formed  — 
his  face  has  a  dark,  dramatic  style  of  beauty  which  lights 
up  most  splendidly  and  effectively  when  he  speaks.  His 
action  is  exceedingly  graceful,  and  his  voice  melodious, 
though  he  speaks  with  a  marked  French  accent.  I  like  to 
look  from  him  to  his  political  and  natural  antipode,  Mr.  Hale, 
of  New  Hampshire.  This  Senator  has  the  appearance  of 
one  who  takes  the  world  kindly  and  easily.  He  is  rather 
stout  in  person,  but  looks  vigorous  and  active.  In  the  form 
of  his  head  and  the  outline  of  his  face,  he  is  somewhat 
like  Napoleon,  but  the  expression  is  more  frank  and  genial. 
Personally  he  is,  I  hear,  quite  popular  with  all  parties 
here,  and  politically  he  moves  on  in  a  straight  and  open 
course,  not  antagonistic  in  spirit,  but  most  uncompromising 
in  principle. 

Mr.  Clemens,  of  Alabama,  the  youngest  member  of  the 
Senate,  and  a  gentleman  quite  well  known  of  late  for  his 
unflattering  estimate  of  Northern  ladies,  is  one  by  himself — 
a  decided  individual.  From  the  length  and  disposal  of  his 
locks,  and  a  certain  ornate  style  of  dress,  bordering  on  the 
flashy,  I  should  say  he  was  a  gentleman  likely  to  smoke 
vehemently,  drive  rapidly,  and  wear  his  hat  with  a  one-sided 
inclination. 

Mr.  Chase,  of  Ohio,  makes  a  fine  -appearance,  with  his 
lofty  figure,  and  his  noble,  earnest  face,  but  I  have  not  heard 
him  speak.  Mr.  Corwin  has,  as  you  well  know,  a  head  and 
face  of  great  character.  I  hope  I  may  yet  listen  to  his 
peculiar  and  powerful  oratory. 

The  House,  most  of  the  time,  is  a  strange  scene  of  con- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


305 


fusion.  The  Speaker,  Mr.  Cobb,  is  kept  hard  at  work,  call¬ 
ing  honorable  gentlemen  to  order  and  making  decisions  — 
pounding  and  expounding.  His  office  is  evidently  no  sine¬ 
cure,  and  his  chair  no  easy  seat  for  quiet  meditation. 

In  the  gallery,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Horace  Mann 
—  one  of  my  enthusiasms,  and  a  most  delightful  person  I 
found,  —  Mr.  Giddings,  a  man  as  agreeable  in  manner  as 
he  is  impressive  in  appearance,  and  strong  in  character  — 
and  one  or  two  other  gentlemen  whose  conversation  more 
than  reconciled  me  to  losing  the  speaking  on  the  floor, 
which,  in  my  position,  I  found  it  impossible  to  hear. 
Charles  Francis  Adams  was  in  the  House.  He  is  strikingly 
like  his  father,  but  shorter,  I  think,  and  with  a  colder  eye. 
Horace  Greeley  was  pointed  out  to  me  —  a  man  of  mark. 
I  think  one  may  safely  venture  that. 

I  like  Washington  immensely.  It  is  a  pleasant,  rambling, 
desultory,  well-ventilated  sort  of  a  town  —  open  to  some 
objection  on  account  of  its  ‘  magnificent  distances,’  perhaps, 
but  delightful,-  for  all  that.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXIV. 

Washington,  June  20th,  1850. 

I  believe  that  my  visit  to  the  President  is  next  in  order. 
As  the  levees  are  now  over  —  I  made  a  morning  call,  ac¬ 
companied  by  the  member  from  my  native  district,  Mr.  Gott, 
of  New  York.  We  passed  through  the  ‘  East  room,5  a  truly 
magnificent  apartment,  and  into  the  ‘Blue  room,’  where 
the  receptions  take  place.  This  apartment  is  handsomely 
furnished,  but  the  profusion  of  gilding  every  where  struck  me 
as  having  a  rather  gairish  effect.  What  I  most  admired  were 
some  of  the  vases  disposed  about  the  room.  We  were  soon 
joined  by  General  Taylor,  who  came  in  with  a  pleasant, 
cordial  manner,  and  with  whom  I  at  once  fell  into  an  easy, 

2G* 


306 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


agreeable  chat.  I  was  entirely  delighted  with  the  old  hero. 
In  the  first  place,  he  is  far  better  looking  than  I  had  ex¬ 
pected  to  find  him,  from  all  the  hard-lined  daguerreotypes, 
stiff  lithographs,  and  rascally  wood-cuts  which  had  met  my 
eye.  He  looks  younger,  slighter,  more  elegant  and  agree¬ 
able  every  way.  His  manner  and  expression  are  altogether 
open  and  honest — dignified  and  soldierly,  yet  simple  in 
the  extreme.  His  voice  is  pleasant,  his  smile  winning,  his 
eye  clear,  earnest,  and  withal,  benevolent.  I  like  and  honor 
him  for  his  manly  uprightness,  most  heartily. 

Passing  through  the  grounds,  we  had  the  honor  of  being 
presented  to  no  less  a  personage  than  4  Old  Whitey.’  He  is 
a  fine,  peculiar  looking  animal,  with  well  shaped  limbs,  a 
well  arched  neck,  and  a  spirited  head.  His  eye  struck  me 
as  singular  —  a  light,  clear  blue,  and  his  nostrils  are  bright 
pink  in  color,  thin  and  4  finely  cut’  — as  magazine  sketchers 
say.  I  pledge  you  my  solemn  word  that  I  did  not  abstract 
a  single  silvery  hair  as  a  souvenir  of  this  interview,  though 
I  laid  my  hand  upon  his  mane,  and  had  the  opportunity  of 
making  considerable  depredations.  It  is  not  often,  I  fear, 
that  the  veteran  charger  makes  such  hair-breadth  escapes 
from  his  admiring  visitors. 

I  have  visited  the  Senate  and  the  House  every  morning 
since  I  last  wrote.  In  the  Senate  there  has  been  no  great 
manifestation  of  late,  but  some  fine  debating.  On  Monday 
General  Cass  roused  himself  out  of  his  usual  sleepy  quiet, 
and  spoke  some  little  time  with  spirit  and  earnest  rapidity. 
But  he  unfortunately  encountered  Hale,  who,  in  this  instance, 
was  hardly  a  4  fellow  well  met.’  But  both  honorable  Sena¬ 
tors  were  quite  good-humored,  though  there  was  some  sharp 
shooting  between  them.  Yesterday  Mr.  Douglass,  of  Illi¬ 
nois,  and  Mr.  Underwood,  of  Kentucky,  spoke  briefly,  but 
well.  Judge  Underwood  has  a  remarkably  fine  face  and 
a  pleasing  manner.  Mr.  Berrien,  of  Georgia,  is  distin¬ 
guished  for  his  thoroughly  gentlemanly  manner;  if  it  be 
not  treason  to  intimate  that  a  gentlemanly  manner  is  a  dis- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


307 


tinction  in  that  high  and  honorable  body,  the  Senate  of  the 
United  States.  As  a  truthful  looker-on,  I  must  say  that 
there  are  some  few  in  both  houses  of  this  Congress,  on 
whom  greatness  sits  awkwardly,  and  who  sit  awkwardly 
upon  greatness  —  i.  e.,  the  honorable  arm-chair  of  legisla¬ 
tion —  some  few  who  neither  speak  good  English  nor  take 
good  aim  at  their  spittoons  —  in  sooth,  if  they  prove  not 
better  marksmen  with  the  pistol,  there  were  little  danger  in 
having  unfortunate  affairs  carried  out  of  the  Senate  —  and 
some  few  there  are  who  manifest  a  most  determined  disregard 
of  spittoons  altogether  —  perhaps  looking  upon  their  use  as  a 
sort  of  compromise  with  that  spirit  of  anti-republican  refine¬ 
ment,  unworthy  of  and  enervating  to  the  bone  and  sinew  of 
the  land.  In  the  House  I  have  observed  some  members, 
desirous,  probably,  of  distinguishing  themselves  as  gentlemen 
of  elevated  understanding,  an  ambition  which  might  possi¬ 
bly  be  baffled  in  another  direction,  coolly  place  their  feet 
across  the  desk  before  them,  and  lean  far  back  in  their 
chairs,  chewing  diligently  the  pungent  weed,  and  eschewing 
the  proper  and  appointed  receptacle  for  its  rejected  juices. 
And  some  there  are  who,  wearied  by  the  noise  and  strife  of 
debate,  assume  a  comfortable  position,  close  their  eyes  on 
the  troubled  scene,  and  let  legislation  ‘  slide.’  Yes,  incredi¬ 
ble  as  it  may  sound,  it  is  no  less  true  that  in  this  tremendous 
crisis,  when  the  vast  interests  of  the  country  are  at  stake, 
some  of  the  people’s  servants  doze  at  their  posts.  Let  their 
constituents  look  to  it,  and  at  the  next  election  administer 
anti-soporific  pledges. 


June  21st. 

Was  at  the  Capitol  yesterday  morning.  In  the  Senate, 
Judge  Berrien  and  Mr.  Douglass  spoke  at  length.  Mr. 
Douglass  is  one  of  the  youngest  members  of  the  Senate, 
and  quite  a  remarkable  man.  As  a  speaker,  he  is  clear 
and  calm,  but  earnest  and  energetic. 

This  much  I  will  say  for  the  Senate,  that  it  improves  on 


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acquaintance — which  remark  I  trust  will  be  encouraging. 
I  not  only  see  more  of  strength  and  character  in  the  appear¬ 
ance  of  the  honorable  Senators  than  at  first,  but  more  that 
is  pleasing.  The  President,  Mr.  Fillmore,  fulfills  his  duties 
in  an  admirable  manner.  Ilis  nice  sense  of  delicacy  and 
gentlemanly  courtesy  eminently  fits  him  for  his  position. 
Mr.  Badger,  of  North  Carolina,  pleasantly  impresses  one 

with  his  countenance  and  manner.  The  two  Senators  from 

• 

New  Jersey,  Mr.  Dayton  and  Mr.  Miller,  are  decidedly  fine- 
looking  men,  of  a  strong,  truthful  character  of  face.  And 
then,  there  is  Senator  Foote,  of  Mississippi,  whom  I  had 
supposed  a  fierce  and  roaring  lion,  4  going  about  seeking 
whom  he  might  devour’  —  or  at  best,  a  fox,  with_a  fire¬ 
brand  attachment,  let  loose  amid  the  harvest-fields  of  his 
political  opponents  and  conservative  friends  —  but  whom  I 
find  one  of  the  kindest,  most  jovial-looking  men  in  the  Sen¬ 
ate  ;  one  who  though  passionate  in  his  demonstrations,  and 
always  extravagant  in  speaking,  seems  not  ungenerous,  or 
vindictively  violent. 

But  I  know  I  am,  in  these  letters,  taking  unusual  liber¬ 
ties  with  this  august  body  —  making  very  free  with  their 
worships  —  and  as  I  bent  over  from  the  gallery,  with  eye 
and  ear  on  the  qui  vive  for  absurdities,  incongruities,  and 
all  sorts  of  comicalities,  it  is  to  be  feeard  that  the  great 
actors  below  must  regard  me  as  the  reverse  of  ‘  the  sweet 
little  cherub  that  sits  up  aloft.’ 

But  why  should  one  be  restrained  by  atve  or  reverence 


from  having  one’s  own,  independent,  careless,  merry  say, 
here  as  elsewhere  ?  Are  they  not  our  servants,  after  all, 
these  mighty  men  of  the  nation  —  these  Senatorial  demi¬ 
gods  ?  N.  B.  Don’t  let  your  compositor  mistake  the  above 
words  for  demagogues  —  a  term  which  I  would  not  be  the 
first  to  even  darkly  insinuate  could  be  applied  to  honorable 
Senators. 

Yesterday,  on  going  into  the  House,  I  found  a  member 
from  Alabama,  in  the  agonies  of  oratory.  His  speech  was 


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309 


a  great  effort  —  for  so  warm  a  day.  Among  many  striking 
things,  he  said  one  which  I  have  not  yet  ceased  studying 
upon.  It  was  —  4  Mr.  Chairman,  if  this  bill  passes,  I  shall 
envy  that  day  in  my  own  existence  when  I  voted  for  it.’ 
Now,  somehow  that  thought  has  got  into  my  head  sideways, 
and  I  am  too  sadly  puzzled  to  appreciate  its  full  force  and 
beauty.  In  other  words,  I  don’t  quite  4  sense  ’  it. 

On  Wednesday  evening  there  was  music  by  the  Marine 
Band  in  the  Capitol  grounds  where  I  had  the  pleasure  of 
meeting  some  friends,  and  of  seeing  many  of  the  beautiful 
women  and  lovely  children,  who  are  among  the  most  attrac¬ 
tive  distinctions  of  Washington.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXV. 

Washington,  June  29th,  1850. 

Monday  and  Tuesday,  Mr.  Soule  addressed  the  Senate 
at  length,  on  his  amendment  to  the  Compromise  Bill.  The 
exordium  of  his  speech  was,  I  should  say,  unfortunate. 
He  indulged  rather  freely  in  censures  and  sarcasms  on 
certain  principles  and  sentiments  prevailing  throughout  a 
large  portion  of  his  adopted  country,  and  honestly  and 
firmly  advocated  by  some  of  the  ablest  and  most  honorable 
members  of  that  Senate  to  which  he  has  been  exalted 
through  the  very  spirit  of  liberty  and  toleration  which  he 
seems  himself  to  disregard.  He  was  not  even  complaisant 
and  complimentary  enough  to  call  the  sentiment  of  the 
North,  4  a  mistaken  philanthropy,  doing  more  honor  to  the 
heart  than  the  head,’  but  contemptuously  pronounced  it  4  a 
blind  fanaticism.’ 

The  style  of  this  speaker  is  dramatic  in  a  high  degree; 
his  attitudes  are  full  of  high-bred  elegance  and  artistic 
grace,  and  some  of  his  tones,  looks  and  gestures,  would 
have  done  honor  to  Talma.  His  is  a  peculiarly  French 


310 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


style  of  speaking  —  brilliant  and  striking,  but  lacking,  I 
think,  some  of  the  higher  elements  of  oratory,  though  per¬ 
haps  it  hardly  finds  full  scope  on  a  question  of  this  kind. 
Mr.  Soule  has  neither  the  ponderous  argument,  and  calm, 
luminous  reasoning  of  Webster;  nor  the  mighty  will,  now 
bold  and  imperious,  now  irresistibly  persuasive,  the  inspiring, 
subduing  eloquence  of  Clay  ;  nor  yet  the  varied,  powerful, 
impassioned  oratory  of  Corwin.  But,  as  I  said,  his  speaking 
is  dramatic ,  and  is  better  suited  to  the  French  Chamber  of 
Deputies,  than  to  a  Senate  whose  members,  in  their  honor 
be  it  said,  are,  with  few  exceptions,  marked  by  true  Anglo- 
Saxon  simplicity,  earnestness  and  solidity. 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

Thursday  we  listened  to  a  long  and  most  peculiar  speech 
from  the  lately  appointed  successor  to  Mr.  Calhoun.  This 
was  a  powerful  dose  of  the  extremest  South  Carolina  ultra- 
ism.  The  honorable  Senator  arose  under  the  shadow  of  the 
greatness  of  his  predecessor,  feeling  on  his  shoulders  more 
the  burden  of  his  nullification,  than  the  mantle  of  his  inspira¬ 
tion.  He  seemed  haunted  by  the  shade  of  departed  genius ; 
to  fear  that  the  spectre  eye  was  upon  him,  the  spectre-ear 
listening  for  his  words  ;  a  groundless  apprehension,  it  is  to 
be  hoped,  as  the  soul  of  the  orator  was  just  then,  probably, 
anywhere  else  than  in  the  Senate  chamber. 

I  have  heard,  somewhere  and  at  sometime,  a  little  story  of 
a  certain  blackbird,  who,  while  leading  a  retired,  pastoral 
life  among  the  meadows  and  corn-fields,  beheld  one  day, 
a  gallant  old  eagle  brought  down  by  the  swift  shaft  of  a 
remorseless  archer,  from  his  eyry  on  a  high,  perilous  peak, 
overlooking  sea  and  land.  When  the  blackbird  saw  that 
lofty  place  all  vacant  and  desolate,  he  resolved  he  would 
ascend  thither,  and  though  he  could  not  Jill,  he  would 
patriotically  occupy  the  storm-tossed  eyry,  till  the  coming 
of  another  of  the  right  regal  race.  The  fable  goes  on  to 
say  that  when  there  came  on  such  tempests  as  were  wont 
to  call  forth  the  loud,  defying  scream  of  the  grand  old  eagle, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


311 


then  the  blackbird,  rising  with  ruffled  feathers,  would  look 
forth  boldly  from  his  huge  eyry,  and  do  his  best  in  a  shrill, 
menacing  whistle,  which  would  pierce  for  a  short  space  into 
the  darkness  and  the  tumult,  there  to  be  cried  down  by  the 
winds,  and  drowned  by  the  waves  in  their  hoarse  dashing. 
Yet  it  certainly  was  a  brave  and  laudable  effort  on  the  part 
of  the  blackbird,  to  whistle  at  all  under  such  circumstances. 
But  pray  pardon  this  long  and  utterly  irrelevant  digression. 

The  new  Senator  from  South  Carolina  was  followed  by 
General  Foote  of  Mississippi,  who  gave  us  a  fine  specimen 
of  his  most  passionate  style,  and  Mr.  Butler  of  South  Caro¬ 
lina,  whose  manner  of  speaking  I  admire  for  its  energy  and 
clearness.  Col.  Davis  of  Mississippi,  also  spoke,  at  great 
length,  and  in  a  violent,  unconciliatory  spirit.  During  his 
speech,  this  belligerent  statesman  rather  went  out  of  his 
way  to  do  up  the  letter- writers,  some  of  whom,  it  seemed, 
had  misrepresented  him,  but  whom  he,  without  discrimi¬ 
nation,  and  en  masse ,  denounced  and  defied.  Looking  up 
into  the  gallery,  where  sat  the  offenders,  innocently  twid¬ 
dling  their  pens,  he  seemed  to  regard  them  as  a  long  line  of 
literary  Mexicans,  opened  a  hot  fire  upon  them,  and  gave 
no  quarter.  The  next  morning  I  fully  expected  to  see  that 
gallery  cleared  of  the  killed  and  wounded,  but,  on  my  soul, 
there  they  were  again !  all  sound  and  hearty,  taking  notes 
and  recording  votes. 

Have  you  any  idea  of  the  multitudinous  amount  of  Gen¬ 
erals,  Colonels,  Governors  and  Judges  there  are  in  this 
Congress?  I  hardly  know  a  man  in  either  House  who 
does  not  sport  some  military  or  civil  title.  They  are  not 
exactly  ‘all  corporals,’  but  something  higher  up.  Among 
the  Generals  of  the  Senate,  with  buff  vest  buttoned  up  to 
the  chin,  a-la-militaire,  sits  the  gallant  Shields,  with  as 
many  lives  as  a  cat,  and  all  nine  devoted  to  the  service  of 
his  country.  One,  to  look  on  his  genial  face  and  erect 
figure,  would  hardly  suppose  he  had  ever  fought  so  fiercely, 
or  been  so  thoroughly  riddled  by  the  bullets  of  the  enemy. 


312 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Near  him  sits  General  Greene  of  Rhode  Island,  ‘  a  true¬ 
hearted  man,’  people  tell  me,  and  most  certainly  his  frank, 
pleasant  countenance  bears  them  out  in  all  such  assertions. 
Among  the  ex-Governors  is  Gen.  Dodge  of  Wisconsin,  a 
right  venerable  Senator,  with  integrity  written  legibly  on 
his  calm,  grave  face.  As  a  politician  he  is  said  to  be 
thoroughly  honest  and  independent.  Next  him  sits  his  son, 
a  Senator  from  Iowa ;  but  one  would  never  guess  the  rela¬ 
tionship,  as  there  is  no  sort  of  family  likeness  between  the 
two. 

A  few  days  since  Colonel  Fremont  was  pointed  out  to 
me,  in  the  Senate  Chamber.  He  stood  leaning  over  the 
seat  of  his  stately  father-in-law,  conversing  with  him,  and 
in  that  position  and  at  that  distance  I  could  not  distinguish 
his  features.  But  my  heart  beat  the  quicker  at  the  very 
sight  of  the  heroic  adventurer.  Friday  evening  I  had  a 
pleasant  stroll  with  a  pleasant  friend  through  the  Capitol 
grounds,  a  cool,  shadowy,  quiet  and  most  beautiful  place. 
We  rested  for  a  time  upon  a  bench  whose  original  dimen¬ 
sions  had  been  reduced,  and  whose  natural  boundaries  were 
destroyed  by  a  pertinacious  process  of  whittling.  The 
favorite  seat  of  Senator  Houston,  perhaps. 

Two  of  the  most  distinguished  women  of  the  age,  Fred- 
rika  Bremer  and  Dorothea  Dix,  are  now  at  Washington. 

Fredrika  Bremer  is  the  most  natural  and  individual  char¬ 
acter  I  have  ever  known.  She  is  like  no  one  in  the  wide 
world,  I  believe.  There  is  in  her  nature  all  the  charming 
varieties  we  find  in  the  admirable  women  of  her  novels,  and 
her  transparent  manner,  her  frank,  earnest  and  lively  con¬ 
versation  reveal  all  to  you  when  you  come  to  know  her. 
Phrenologists  say  that  her  head  shows  a  remarkable  devel¬ 
opment  of  benevolence  and  of  all  the  kindly  and  affectionate 
organs.  A  most  harmonious  working  together  of  heart, 
brain  and  soul,  does  her  life  of  goodness,  beauty  and  useful^ 
ness  present. 

Dorothea  Dix,  that  good  genius,  that  ministering  angel  to 


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313 


the  criminal  and  maniac,  the  outcast  of  earth  and  the  stricken 
of  God  —  is,  as  you  would  suppose,  a  woman  of  noble  and 
prepossessing  appearance.  She  is  fair  and  slight,  and  looks 
but  illy  adapted  physically  for  the  life  ot  self-sacrifice,  en¬ 
durance  and  almost  superhuman  exertion  to  which  she  has 
consecrated  herself.  But  her  eye,  though  calm  and  mild  and 
full  of  soft  persuasion,  also  reveals  the  strength  of  a  great 
soul  —  the  wondrous  magnetic  power  of  a  deep,  inward  life. 
She  has  a  gentle,  even-toned  voice,  and  her  manners  are 
simple  and  winning,  yet  dignified  and  womanly. 

It  is  cheering  and  impressive  to  know  of  these  two  great 
types  of  womanhood,  that  their  crowning  distinction  is  good¬ 
ness,  and  the  richer  portion  of  their  fame  is  love.  Ah,  we 
may  know  that  this  earth  of  ours  is.  not  left  swinging  away 
off  here  out  of  God’s  atmosphere,  abandoned  and  forgotten, 
while  such  natures  are  sent  to  us,  bearing  the  fulness  of 
Heaven’s  life  —  and  while  we  can  ^receive  and  know,  the 
angelic  visitants  ;  while  all,  the  aged  and  the  young,  the 
lofty  and  the  humble,  the  meek  woman  and  the  brave 
soldier,  the  little  child  and  the  great  Statesman,  4  delight  to 
do  them  honor.’  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXVI. 

Washington,  July  6th,  1850. 

The  coming  of  the  4th  has  somewhat  interrupted  the  pro¬ 
ceedings  of  Congress  this  week  —  national  legislation  giving 
way  to  national  glorification. 

Saturday,  Monday  and  Tuesday  were  principally  taken  up 
with  speeches  on  the  Compromise  Bill,  from  Mr.  Cooper  of 
Pennsylvania,  and  Mr.  Upham  of  Vermont.  Mr.  Cooper  is 
rather  an  agreeable-looking  man,  and  doubtless  a  man  of  high 
ability,  but,  as  a  speaker,  he  is  dull,  prolix  and  mechanical 
His  principles  and  prepossessions  are  said  to  point  to  the 
27 


314 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


Southern  quarter  of  the  political  compass.  Mr.  Upham,  on 
the  contrary,  is  of  the  North,  Northy.  His  speech  was 
true,  I  think,  to  the  sentiment  of  his  section  of  the  country, 
but  sounded  as  though  written  to  order.  He  acknowledged, 
very  naively  and  unnecessarily,  that  he  prepared  it  three 
months  ago  —  and  he  certainly  read  as  though  he  had  never 
looked  at  it  since.  His  manner  was  without  ardor  or 
earnestness  —  cold  and  monotonous,  and  like  Mr.  Cooper’s, 
his  speech  seemed  stretching  itself  out  to  the  crack  of 
doom.  By  the  way,  a  just  subject  for  agitation  and  animad¬ 
version  is  the  frightful  prolixity  of  honorable  gentlemen, 
who,  having  prepared  speeches  in  the  cool  Spring  weather, 
deliver  them  in  the  dog-days,  with  remorseless  resolution, 
looking  glum  if  their  audience  do  not  take  it  coolly.  There 
rises  a  Northern  statesman,  who,  with  the  desire  of  favoring 
some  Southern  policy,  hath  the  fear  of  being  cashiered  by 
his  constituents,  and  must  steer  slowly  and  carefully  between 
Scylla  and  Charybdis  —  or  rather,  like  a  circus-rider,  must 
mount  and  manage  two  steeds  at  once  ;  or  there  a  Southern 
alarmist  croaks  out  the  commonplaces  of  agitation  —  boring 
the  Senate  with  his  evil  auguries  on  the  fate  of  the  Union. 
Honorable  Senators  read  newspapers,  frank  letters,  receive 
their  pay  and  write  receipts  at  their  desks,  fans,  snuff-boxes, 
paragraphs  and  caricatures  go  round  ;  here  are  elevated  a 
pair  of  slippered  feet  which  may  have  done  ^execution  in  an 
Alabama  ball-room  ;  there  is  bowed  a  head,  bald  by  the 
friction  of  many  laurels  ;  nods  and  winks  most  mal-apropos 
and  out  of  character,  are  on  the  increase,  and  yawns  and 
stretchings  grow  frequent  and  contagious.  Yet  flows  on, 
unceasing,  the  unheeded  oratory  —  a  drizzling  stream  of 
legal  argument,  or  statistical  statement,  or  a  foaming  cur¬ 
rent  of  patriotic  sentiment,  in  a  weak,  wordy  solution  — 
bravado  and  balderdash  for  Buncombe.  It  is  too  much  — 
there  are  bounds  to  human  endurance  —  Senator  after  Sen¬ 
ator  rises  with  slow  dignity  from  his  arm-chair,  and  quietly 
‘  slopes  ’  through  the  northern  door-way,  for  an  hour’s 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


315 


siesta  in  the  ante-room  —  the  galleries  grow  unquiet,  and  thin 
off  momently  —  even  the  gracious  smile  of  the  handsome 
President  grows  languid,  and  his  appealing  glance  calling  to 
his  seat  some  chair -it- able  substitute,  he  yields  the  post  of 
honor,  with  his  own  peculiar  grace,  and  glides  forth,  smiling 
as  he  goes,  benignantly  to  the  last.  Yet  still  flows  on, 
unceasing,  the  unheeded  oratory,  in  bewildering  eddies  of 
sophistical  reasoning  over  shallows  of  thought,  with  now  and 
then  a  small  bubble  of  wit,  or  a  soft  gurgle  of  sentiment,  and 
sometimes,  though  very  rarely,  of  course,  a  slight  muddiness 
of  meaning. 

Mr.  Bell,  of  Tennessee,  has  been  ringing  loud  and  sharp 
for  two  days,  in  the  ears  of  the  Senate,  and  will  probably  toll 
through  the  morning  to-day.  He  is  a  fine  speaker  in  some 
respects,  but  too  fearfully  diffuse,  weakening  all  his  strong 
points  by  repetition.  He  is  most  earnest  and  energetic  at 
times,  and  wonderful  is  the  power  of  his  lungs,  if  not  the 
force  of  his  logic.  An  eloquent  defence  of  the  President 
and  his  policy  formed  an  interesting  portion  of  this  inter¬ 
minable  speech. 

The  speech  of  Mr.  Seward,  of  New  York,  delivered  on 
Tuesday,  was  an  admirable  effort  —  strong,  straight-forward, 
clear  and  condensed,  yet  not  without  the  ornaments  of  true 
eloquence  and  poetry.  The  manner  of  this  Senator  does  not 
correspond  with  his  matter.  His  voice  does  not  vary  greatly, 
and  he  never  seems  powerfully  excited,  even  when  uttering 
the  most  radical  sentiments.  He  is  characterized  by  a  quiet 
boldness,  a  cool,  I  had  almost  said  a  calculating  audacity  in 
the  expression  and  support  of  his  opinions. 

On  the  evening  of  the  3d,  the  ladies  of  the  National  Hotel 
held  a  reception.  Miss  Lynch  seemed  the  presiding  genius, 
and  she  was  a  host  as  well  as  a  hostess  in  herself,  in  the 
ease,  gaiety  and  kindliness  of  her  manner.  Fredrika,  of 
Sweden,  was  also  there  — —  with  her  simple,  retiring  manner, 
her  kind  words  and  her  sweet  voice,  making  herself  felt  as  a 
presence  of  gentle  greatness.  Forms  of  manly  beauty, 


i 


316 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


faces  of  feminine  loveliness,  were  around  her  that  night, 
which  the  authoress  may  yet  unconsciously  reproduce  in  her 
vivid  word-painting.  Yes  —  we  had  ‘  fair  women  and  brave 
men,’  and  some  brave  women  and  fair  men.  We  had 
music,  we  had  dancing  !  Ay,  honorable  members,  Senators, 
Judges  and  Generals  cliasseed  and  dos-a-dosed  with  belles 
and  blues  in  blissful  forgetfulness  of  all  the  cares  and  digni¬ 
ties  of  State.  Immediately  behind  where  I  stood,  sat  the 
Vice  President,  Mr.  Fillmore,  in  conversation  with  the  heroic 
wife  of  the  heroic  Fremont,  and  I  almost  expected  4  the 
Chair  ’  to  call  us  to  order  in  his  own  bland  and  half-depre¬ 
cating  manner,  when  any  thing  went  wrong  in  the  dance. 
We  had  laughing  and  jesting  over  ices  —  we  had  tete-a-tetes 
in  window-seats,  and  promenades  along  piazzas  —  all  the 
usual  concomitants  of  a  pleasant  evening  party,  except 
compliments  and  flirtations.  Statesmen  and  authoresses  of 
course  know  nothing  of  such  things  —  and  then,  most  of  the 
company  were  married ! 

On  the  4th,  were  the  usual  parades,  ceremonies  and  fes¬ 
tivities.  Senator  Foote  delivered  from  the  Washington  Mon¬ 
ument,  an  oration  which  has  been  much  commended.  It  was 
brief,  simple,  and  in  passages,  eloquent.  It  breathed  a 
patriotic,  a  truly  national  spirit.  I,  for  one,  believe  that 
Gen.  Foote  has  an  originally  generous  nature,  and  that  the 
warmth  of  his  heart  can  only  be  surpassed  by  the  heat  of  his 
brain.  Bold,  impetuous,  excitable  and  extravagant  as  he  is, 
no  one,  not  a  political  rival,  or  opponent,  can  know  him  per¬ 
sonally  without  liking  him  —  without  feeling  all  bitter  preju¬ 
dices  giving  way  before  the  happy  good  humor  of  his  smile, 
the  mischievous  sparkle  of  his  eye,  the  boyish  restlessness 
and  springy  alertness  of  his  manner  and  action.  But  then, 
his  belligerent  propensities  —  his  quarrelling  and  duelling! 
How  he  ever  stood  still  long  enough  to  be  shot  at,  is  a  mys¬ 
tery  to  me  ;  and  how  any  man  could  look  into  such  a  funny 
face  and  fire,  is  another. 

To  return  to  the  oration —  I  must  not  forget  to  record  its 


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317 


great  and  peculiar  distinction.  It  was  the  first  Fourth  of 
July  address  I  had  ever  heard  or  read,  heard  of,  or  read  of, 
having  no  quotation  from,  no  allusion  to  the  heroes,  poets, 
orators  and  philosophers  of  Greece  and  Rome.  I  had  sup 
posed  a  general  sort  of  pro  tem  resurrection  of  those  old 
worthies  a  necessary  part  of  the  programme  of  our  annual 
glorification.  This  forbearance  was  the  more  commendable, 
as  the  General’s  fine  classical  attainments  place  under  Ins 
command  a  most  effective  brigade  of  able-bodied  ancients. 

Mr.  Clay  bears  up  bravely  against  the  extreme  heat  of  the 
season,  the  wearying  delays  to  which  his  favorite  measuie  is 
subjected,  and  the  opposition  with  which  it  is  met  by  prom¬ 
inent  representatives  of  both  parties,  North  and  South.  He 
may  be  seen  every  morning  at  his  post  in  the  Senate,  sitting 
quiet  and  erect,  now  and  then  turning  to  shake  hands  with  a 
friend,  smiling  always  as  he  does  so,  in  his  own  illuminating 
way.  He  now  speaks  seldom  and  briefly,  but  his  voice 
gives  out  still  mx  its  higher  tones  the  same  imperial  01  im¬ 
passioned  sound  ;  still  belongs  to  its  lower  tones  the  old  be¬ 
guiling  music.  When  in  moments  of  excitement  he  lises  to 
speak,  and  stands  so  firm  and  proud,  with  his  eye  all  a-gleam, 
while  his  voice  rings  out  clear  and  strong,  it  almost  seems 
that  his  apparent  physical  debility  was  but  a  sort  of  Richelieu 
ruse ,  and  that  the  hot  blood  of  youth  was  yet  coursing 
through  his  veins,  and  the  full  vigor  of  manhood  yet  stiong 
in  every  limb.  The  wonderful  old  man  ! 


Saturday,  P.  M. 

Have  just  returned  from  the  President’s  Grounds,  where 
every  Saturday  evening  is  held  one  of  the  people  s  levees. 
It  was  a  most  animated  and  pleasant  scene.  We  had  fine 
music  and  many  an  agreeable  chat  with  our  friends.  A 
lovelier  sunset  than  that  of  to-night,  I  never  beheld.  At  one 
time  the  air  about  us  became  perfectly  golden  —  my  white 
gloves  and  veil  assumed  the  fashionable  corn-color,  and  the 
complexion  of  the  friend  with  whom  I  was  conversing,  grew 
27* 


318 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


alarmingly  bilious ;  but  presently  a  soft  pink  light  was  shed 
over  all,  bringing  a  brilliant  bloom  to  cheeks  and  lips,  and 
alas,  noses  !  heightening  magically  and  sometimes  comically 
the  effect  of  dress.  We  laughed  a  little  at  a  distinguished 
Western  Senator,  who  somewhat  prides  himself  on  his  repub¬ 
lican  simplicity  and  democratic  plainness,  for  the  exquisite 
dandyism  of  rose-colored  pantaloons. 

The  President  was  not  visible  —  being  out  of  health  —  a 
mere  temporary  indisposition,  it  is  to  be  hoped. 

Adieu. 


LETTER  XXVII. 

Washington,  July  11th,  1850. 

I  must  write,  this  week,  under  a  cloud  of  sadness,  and 
with  indescribable  emotions  of  awe,  bewilderment  and  grief. 
The  death  of  our  President,  so  utterly  unlooked  for  as  it  was, 
over  what  spirit  has  it  not  cast  shadows  of  gloom  ?  Who 
does  not  feel  intense  sympathy  with  the  bereaved  home- 
circle  of  the  husband  and  the  father  —  who  does  not  feel  that 
greatness  and  strength  have  gone  from  us  in  the  departing  of 
the  hero  and  the  patriot  —  who  does  not  know  a  pang  of  gen¬ 
uine  sorrow  and  a  shock  of  apprehension  at  the  sudden  going 
out  of  that  one  life  on  which  seemed  to  depend,  at  this  pe¬ 
riod,  so  much  of  the  glory  and  destiny  of  the  nation  ?  What 
a  momentous  event !  —  what  a  mysterious  and  fearful  man¬ 
ifestation  of  the  power  and  providence  of  God  !  It  is  in  vain 
that  we  seek  to  pierce  the  thick  cloud  —  to  see  the  need  and 
the  purpose  of  this.  We  have  but  to  fall  back  on  a  childlike 
and  unquestioning  faith  in  His  wisdom. and  goodness  ‘  who 
doeth  all  things  well.’ 

We  were  in  the  Senate  Chamber  on  Tuesday  morning, 
when  Mr.  Webster,  in  a  voice  like  a  deep-toned  bell,  and 
with  the  utmost  solemnity  of  manner,  announced  the  alarm- 


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319 


ing  illness  of  the  President,  and  moved  an  immediate 
adjournment.  I  never  witnessed  a  sc  ene  of  more  impressive 

0 

sadness.  All  that  day  we  suffered  great  anxiety  —  accounts 
grew  worse,  and  universal  became  the  sorrow  and  alarm. 
At  ten  o’clock  we  heard  that  he  was  dying,  and  between 
eleven  and  twelve,  by  the  slow  tolling  of  the  bell,  far  more 
mournful  than  any  words,  we  knew  that  he  was  gone ! 

Yesterday  we  visited  the  Capitol  to  hear  the  official  an¬ 
nouncement  of  the  death  of  General  Taylor,  and  to  witness 
the  inauguration  of  the  new  President.  The  ceremony  took 
place  in  the  Hall  of  the  House  of  Representatives,  the 
Senate  and  Heads  of  the  Departments  being  present.  I  will 
not  describe  it,  as  you  have  already  seen  full  accounts.  I 
will  only  say  that  I  was  deeply  impressed  by  its  solemnity, 
brevity  and  simplicity.  There  was  no  form,  no  pomp,  nor 
confusion,  nor  contending  of  factions  —  the  most  beautiful 
practical  manifestation  of  the  spirit  of  our  Republican  system, 
possible  to  behold. 

Mr.  Fillmore  bore  himself  nobly  through  all.  He  was 
greatly  changed  in  appearance  by  the  events  of  the  last  few 
hours.  His  face,  usually  so  bright  with  the  sunshine  of  a 
happy  and  generous  nature,  was  now  deeply  shadowed  by  a 
sincere  grief  and  a  solemn  sense  of  the  immeasurable  re¬ 
sponsibilities  so  suddenly  devolving  upon  him. 

As  he  stood  calmly  and  gravely  forth,  as  the  highest  rep¬ 
resentative  of  the  power  and  the  glory  of  a  Government  so 
vast  and  stupendous  as  ours,  as  he  took  its  mighty  care  upon 
him,  from  many  a  heart,  I  am  sure,  as  from  mine,  came  the 
prayerful  ejaculation  —  ‘  God  be  with  him  !  ’ 

I  will  not,  of  course,  presume  to  pronounce  upon  the  poli¬ 
tical  principles  or  executive  abilities  of  the  new  President, 
but  if  I  may  be  allowed  a  purely  womanly  observation,  I 
would  say  that,  in  some  respects,  he  is  certainly  peculiarly 
fitted  to  his  new  position.  He  will  wear  gracefully  the  honors 
and  dignities. of  that  high  station.  The  beauty  of  his  person, 
the  suavity  and  simple  elegance  of  his  manner,  his  conver- 


320 


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sational  tact  and  talent,  will  all  be  matters  of  gratulation  for 
us  in  the  future. 

Mr.  Fillmore  looks  the  President  and  the  gentleman,  a 
great  desideratum  and  a  happy  circumstance,  aftei  all. 

Saturday,  July  13th. 

Have  just  returned  from  witnessing  the  passing  of  the 
funeral  procession  of  President  Taylor  down  the  Avenue, 
from  the  White  House  to  the  Capitol.  It  was  truly  a  most 
grand  and  melancholy  pageant.  The  hearse,  drawn  by 
eight  white  horses,  was  exceedingly  beautiful,  with  a  gloomy 
magnificence  of  form  and  decoration  —  the  triumphal  car  of 
death.  One  of  the  most  touching  sights,  was  the  famous 
white  war-horse  of  the  dead  hero,  led  next  the  heaise, 
caparisoned  as  of  old,  treading  along  lightly  to  the  familial 
music,  arching  his  proud  neck  with  the  vanity  native  to  his 
race,  and  all  unconscious  that  he  now  followed  to  the  still 
grave-rest,  the  kind  master  he  had  once  home  so  biavely 

through  the  loud  rush  of  battle. 

At  last  the  long,  sad  and  splendid  array  passed  by,  and 
we  turned  homeward,  feeling  that  all  was  indeed  over.  It 
is  now  night  ;  —  the  muffled  drum  is  no  longei  beating,  the 
bells  have  ceased  tolling,  and  the  hot  mouth  of  the  cannon  is 
silent.  The  shadows  of  the  grave  encompass  the  dead  hero, 
but  a  heavier,  colder  darkness  is  gathered  aiound  the  lives 
of  those  from  whom  he  grieved  to  part  —  ‘  the  friends  who 

loved  him.’ 

In  the  Senate  there  has,  of  course,  been  little  done  during 
the  past  week:  Mr.  Smith,  of  Connecticut,  finished  his 
speech  on  Monday,  and  Mr.  Butler,  of  South  Carolina,  com¬ 
menced  his  on  Tuesday.  Of  these  two  speakers,  Mr.  Butler 
is  decidedly  the  most  interesting.  He  always  speaks  in  a 
clear,  ringing  voice,  and  with  much  earnestness  of  manner. 
Pie  is  a  very  singular  looking  person,  and  will  arrest  at  once 
the  attention  of  a  visitor  to  the  Senate.  Though  by  no 
means  an  old  man,  he  has  a  thick  shock  of  perfectly  white 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


321 


hair,  commonly  concealing  his  brow,  beneath  which  gleam 
out  more  mockingly  than  fiercely,  a  pair  of  lively,  sparkling, 
restless  eyes.  Mr.  Butler’s  style  of  speaking  is  natural  and 
impressive,  without  being  remarkably  graceful  or  brilliant. 
He  is  a  strong  champion  of  the  South,  but  happily  lacks  the 
hot-headed  violence  of  some  of  his  compeers. 

The  new  President  of  the  Senate,  Mr.  King  of  Alabama, 
is  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school  —  grave,  precise  and  per¬ 
pendicular.  He  is  unapproachably  great  on  all  points  of 
order  —  absolutely  without  a  rival  in  his  knowledge  of  sen¬ 
atorial  etiquette,  form  and  dignity,  and  is  remarkable  for  a 
certain  prim  and  spinster-like  propriety  of  manner,  dress 
and  style  of  speaking,  most  unbending  and  undeviating. 

By  the  way,  I  perceive  by  divers  newspaper  paragraphs, 
that  my  Washington  letters  are  failing  to  please  entirely 
some  few  of  my  small  parish  of  readers,  both  North  and 
South.  As  a  true  Northern  woman,  I  hesitate  not  to  avow 
that  my  sympathies  are  with  those  men  who  truly  represent 
and  boldly  advocate  Northern  principles,  —  but,  at  the  same 
time,  it  is  my  sincere  desire  to  do  justice,  as  far  as  I  may, 
to  the  talent  and  worth  of  their  opponents.  In  writing  for 
a  neutral  paper,  I  can  fairly  and  properly  do  no  less.  I 
wish  to  do  no  more.  Then,  I  suppose,  I  may  as  well  frankly 
acknowledge  that  I  am  influenced,  to  a  certain  degree,  by 
the  observation  of  fine  social  qualities  and  personal  agreea¬ 
bleness,  and  even  that  I  am  woman  enough  to  feel  courtesies 
and  kindnesses  shown  to  myself.  I  would  not  accept,  could 
I  not  acknowledge  them.  My  prejudices  can  often  thus 
be  overcome  or  modified  —  my  principles,  thank  Heaven, 
never. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  have  incurred  the  disapprobation  of 
my  Southern  readers  by  simply  doing  justice  to  some  of 
the  prominent  exponents  of  the  principles  and  policy  of  the 
North.  Ah,  my  friends,  could  you  know  how  often  I  have 
refrained  from  speaking  their  praise,  out  of  consideration 
for  your  delicate  sensibilities  !  —  if  you  knew  how  much  is 


322 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


left  unsaid,  you  would  pardon  what  is  said.  Now,  let  us 
reason  together.  Is  there  not  far  too  little  of  fairness  and 
generosity  shown  by  both  Northern  and  Southern  journalists 
and  letter-writers  in  their  doing  up  of  the  statesmen  and 
legislators  at  the  Capitol  ?  I  met  lately  with  a  letter  in 
some  Southern  journal,  the  writer  of  which,  in  describing 
the  Senate,  dwelt  with  rapturous  admiration  on  such  men 
as  Soule,  Butler,  Foote  and  Davis,  ringing  for  them  all  the 
changes  of  enthusiastic  eulogy,  but  merely  slurred  over 
some  of  the  ablest  and  most  eminent  Senators  of  the  North, 
in  a  criticism  as  poor  and  false  in  spirit  as  it  was  flippant 
and  bitter  in  tone.  I  would  avoid  all  these  things,  and  yet 
be  truthful  —  that  is,  always  speak  the  truth,  if  not  the 
whole  truth.  My  impressions  of  men  and  things  here  may 
not  be  invariably  correct,  but  they  are  honestly  and  most 
good-humoredly  given.  The  difficulty  which  one  so  situ¬ 
ated,  finds  in  pleasing  every  body,  often  reminds  me  of  the 
fable  of  the  unfortunate  old  man,  who,  whether  he  rode  or 
carried  his  donkey,  was  sure  to  incur  the  disapproval  of 
his  fellow-travellers.  On  the  whole,  I  have  concluded  that 
the  wisest  and  most  comfortable  way  is  to  please  yourself 
by  doing  just  as  you  please.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXVIII. 

Washington,  June  20th,  1850. 

Monday,  we  had  a  great,  though  not  a  very  long  speech 
from  Mr.  Benton.  It  was  a  clear,  condensed,  a  pointed  and 
powerful  argument,  as  you  will  perceive,  though  not  so 
vividly,  in  the  reading.  In  the  manner  of  Mr.  Benton  there 
is  often  a  fierce  and  terrible  force.  His  sarcasm  is  keen 
and  scathing,  and  his  tones,  looks  and  gestures  barb  and 
drive  home  his  sharp  and  stinging  words.  He  is  a  proud, 
stern,  lordly  and  uncompromising  speaker  —  always  mani- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


323 


festing  a  hearty  and  honest  contempt  for  wordy  patriotism 
and  political  blarney  —  all  honeying  and  humbugging  of 
constituents. 

He  is  no  juggler,  nor  tumbler  —  no  player  with  balls  and 
feathers  —  he  favors  you  with  no.  tight-rope  dancing,  and 
throws  you  no  somersets,  but  strides  into  the  ring  as  a  fierce 
and  hardy  gladiator,  or  a  stout  boxer,  not  to  play,  but  to 
fight.  He  is  always  in  earnest,  always  confident,  and 
follows  up  an  opponent  with  the  sure  unflagging,  remorse¬ 
less  eagerness  of  a  blood-hound  on  the  scent. 

It  is  surprising  how  mildly  the  speeches  of  Mr.  Benton 
read,  compared  with  their  spoken  effect.  His  manner  is  at 
times  strikingly  dramatic  in  its  bitter,  unmitigated  severity ; 
and  some  of  his  tones  are  enough  to  chill  one’s  blood, 
he  is  so  cold  and  deliberate  even  in  his  passion.  He  does 
not  board  the  enemy’s  ship  with  spike  and  brand,  nor  fire  it 
with  grenades,  but  crashes  down  upon  it  like  some  pon¬ 
derous  and  pitiless  iceberg.  In  that  portion  of  his  late 
speech  in  which  he  made  his  exulting  and  merciless  expose 
of  what  he  pronounced  the  dishonest  Compromise  plot, 
grasping  the  bill,  and  holding  it  up  as  ‘  a  criminal,’  it  was 
curious  to  mark  the  effect  of  his  words  and  manner  on  the 
three  great  leaders  opposed  to  him. 

A  fire  kindled  in  the  wan  cheek,  and  shot  from  the  keen 
eye  of  Clay.  Webster’s  sternest  glances  gleamed  out  from 
beneath  the  black  ledge  of  his  lowering  brow ;  while  the 
weighty  countenance  of  Cass  wore  a  shocked  and  mildly 
indignant  expression,  ‘  for  self  and  partners,’  seeming  to  say 
as  the  worthy  Falstaff  would  have  said  —  ‘How  the  world 
is  given  to  lying  !  There  live  but  three  honest  politicians 
in  America,  and  one  of  them  is  fat  and  grows  old.’ 

Colonel  Benton  seems  full  of  calm,  determined  energy 
and  endurance.  There  is  about  him  no  sign  of  yielding  or 
decay.  The  cold,  steady  look  of  his  eye,  and  his  thin, 
compressed  lips,  show  an  almost  superhuman  strength  of 
will,  patient,  even  more  than  vehement,  unwearying,  un* 


324 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


conquerable,  ever  renewing  itself,  and  putting  out  some 
fresh  manifestation  of  its  vitality  and  its  vigor.  In  personal 
intercourse,  Mr.  Benton  is  said  to  be,  at  times,  exceedingly 
proud,  distant  and  haughty.  One  reason  for  this  may  be 
that  he  is  not  always  rightly  approached.  A  proud  man 
respects  pride  in  another,  and  his  occasional  affability  cer¬ 
tainly  has  the  more  meaning  and  effect  that  it  is  neither 
common  nor  assumed. 

On  Wednesday,  Mr.  Webster  spoke  in  favor  of  the  Com¬ 
promise  Bill.  I  then  admired  him  greatly,  but  was  by  no 
means  carried  away  by  enthusiasm.  The  granite-like  gran¬ 
deur  of  his  head,  the  solemnity  of  his  tones  and  manner, 
the  severe  beauty  of  his  language,  the  symmmetry  of  his 
style  are  certainly  impressive,  but  not  over-mastering  or 
electrifying.  Outward  warmth  and  central  force,  intensity 
of  feeling  and  earnestness  of  purpose,  are  too  obviously 
wanting.  True,  he  seems  serious  in  most  that  he  says,  but 
rather  doggedly  than  deeply  so.  Even  his  wit  is  a  sort  of 
heavy  and  elephantine  playfulness  —  his  humorous  sallies 
light  up  his  own  dark  face  but  for  an  instant,  and  seldom 
call  forth  a  genial  and  irresistible  response.  People  laugh 
when  Webster  leads  the  way,  from  patriotic  and  party  con¬ 
siderations. 

In  the  course  of  his  speech,  the  distinguished  statesman 
commented  with  almost  annihilating  contempt  on  the  Wil- 
mot  Proviso  —  stood  there  crying  down  the  political  c  thun¬ 
der,’  once  claimed  as  his  peculiar  property  —  like  an  old 
lion  <rrowlins  at  the  echo  of  his  own  roar.  But  the  galleries 

o  O  ^  .  . 

applauded,  and  his  admirers  will  probably  receive  this 
speech  as  they  receive  all  the  words  of  the  great  leader,  as 
manna  from  the  seventh  political  heaven.  By-the-bye,  his 
enemies  might  say  that  his  principles  resemble  the  celestial 
food  of  the  Israelites  in  another  respect  —  are  ‘  new  every 
morning’  —  and  in  yet  another — will  not  do  to  keep. 

Mr.  Webster  closed  with  a  generous  tribute  to  Massachu¬ 
setts,  wherein  Concord  and  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


325 


were  alluded  to  with  profound  respect,  the  Monument  highly 
complimented,  and  Plymouth  Rock  affectionately  remem¬ 
bered.  It  was  very  fine  and  very  eloquent,  doubtless,  but 
again  those  malicious  enemies  come  in,  to  spoil  one  s  relish 
for  the  grand  and  beautiful,  by  coolly  and  irreverently  pro¬ 
nouncing  it  a  piece  of  exalted  and  sublimated  Buncombe. 

Mr.  Hale  followed  Mr.  Webster  with  a  few  remarks  in 
reply  to  a  portion  of  his  speech,  and  made,  as  usual,  a  fine 
point  and  an  admirable  hit,  somewhat  to  the  annoyance  of 
the  venerable  Senator,  who  evidently  did  not  wish  a  quick¬ 
step  struck  up  after  his  slow  and  stately  march,  nor  care  to 
have  the  solemn  hush  of  an  impressed  auditory  rudely 
broken  by  the  noise  of  laughter.  A  freshening  influence 
and  an  arousing  spirit  in  that  atmosphere  of  dull  policy  and 
oppressive  dignity,  is  the  ever-ready  wit,  and  the  fearless 
yet  good-humored  freedom  of  Senator  Hale.  Whenever 
he  rises  with  the  promise  of  something  bright  and  fresh 
dawning  in  his  face,  every  eye  lights  up  with  comical  expec¬ 
tation, —  all  are  on  the  lookout  for  fun  and  satire,  and  none 
seem  to  enjoy  it  more  than  some  of  the  victims,  who  can 
but  admit  that  the  operation,  though  severe,  was  performed 
with  4  neatness  and  dispatch.’ 

Mr.  Hunter,  of  Virginia,  spoke  on  Thursday.  A  very 
interesting  speaker,  and,  at  times,  eloquent ;  he  takes,  on 
this  question,  the  extreme  Southern  ground.  His  speech 
was  followed  by  a  lively  debate  between  Mr.  Foote,  who 
was,  as  usual,  worked  up  to  the  boiling  point,  Mr.  Davis, 
of  Mississippi,  who  spoke  in  a  tone  which  was  a  singular 
mingling  of  the  military  and  the  ministerial,  and  Mr.  Butler, 
of  South  Carolina,  who  was  even  more  than  commonly 
animated,  shaking  his  snowy  head,  his  quick,  fiery  eyes 
gleaming  out  from  behind  his  wild  overhanging  locks,  like 
those  of  an  angered  buffalo. 

Friday  morning  was  mostly  taken  up  by  brief  speeches 
from  Mr.  King,  Judge  Berrien,  and  Mr.  Clay.  The  first 
strikes  one  as  a  practical,  methodical,  common-sensical  sort 
28 


326  GREENWOOD  LEAVES.  / 

of  a  man,  one  whose  spinal  uprightness  may  be  but  the 
outward  type  of  an  unbending  and  honest  character.  Mr. 
Berrien  has  evidently  an  opinion  of  his  own,  but  he  4  draws 
it  rather  mild.5  Mr.  Clay  spoke  with  earnest  eloquence, 
and  was  listened  to  with  eager  interest. 

In  looking  down  upon  the  Senate,  one  is  immediately 
struck  by  the  prevailing  baldness,  not  of  style,  but  of  head. 
It  puzzles  me  to  account  for  this.  With  Mississippi’s  excita¬ 
ble  Senator  it  may  be  the  effect  of  the  vigorous  working  of 
his  hot  and  restless  brain;  yet  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
Chamber  sits  a  Senator  who  takes  the  world  more  easily, 
says  little,  and  that  quietly,  but  over  the  glassy  and  shining 
expanse  of  whose  cranium  adventurous  flies  vainly  attempt 
to  cross  on  foot.  And  many  more  there  are  of  whom  it 
might  be  said,  that  were  the  growth  of  hair  the  measure  of 
intellectual  and  political  abilities,  as  according  to  the  Sam- 
sonian  theory  it  is  of  physical  power,  they  would  hardly  be 
found  to  muster  great  strength  at  the  polls. 

Visitors  are  also  apt  to  notice  some  peculiarities  of  sena¬ 
torial  pronunciation,  which  are  rather  odd.  For  instance, 
Mr.  Clay  says,  and  indeed  many  of  the  Southern  members, 
say  4  whar  ’  and  4  tharS  Mr.  Webster  says  4  indi-vid-oo-aV 
and  4  natur ,’  and  one  of  the  Texas  Senators  says  4  bust  ’ 
for  burst.  All  I  can  say  is,  I  hope  such  pronunciations 
may  continue  to  be  exclusively  and  purely  parliamentary. 
Another  thing  we  notice  is  the  extreme  humility  of  all  that 
honorable  body.  Each  modestly  styles  himself  the  4  hum¬ 
blest  member,’  and  there  seems  quite  an  amiable  strife  for 
the  occupancy  of  the  lowest  seat  in  the  synagogue.  But 
again  it  is  said  by  the  irreverent,  that  the  distinguished 
gentlemen,  like  the  Uriah  Keep  of  Dickens,  carry  humility 
in  their  talk ,  to  a  suspicious  and  fanatical  extreme  —  in  other 
words,  rather  run  that  commendable  and  pious  virtue  into 
the  ground. 

And  now  I  have  a  spicy  little  bit  of  scandal  for  your  ear 
alone.  Mind,  I  don’t  indorse  it,  so  it  must  go  no  farther. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


327 


Some  of  the  honorable  Senators,  while  making  speeches  of 
unusual  length,  are  observed  to  drink  frequently,  quite 
frequently,  I  should  say.  Well,  there  are  those  who  declaie 
that  the  draught  provided  for  the  speakers,  which  looks  so 
limpid  and  innocent  to  the  unsophisticated  and  uninitiated,  is 
not  alas,  of  that  primitive  fluid  which  was  Adam’s  early 
drink  and  Eve’s  first  looking-glass,  —  they  say  that  the 
flights  of  said  orators  should  be  poetic,  even  Byronic,  inas¬ 
much  as  they  drink  from  what  was  too  often  the  fount  of 
Byron’s  inspiration  — that,  in  short,  the  water  is  only  swal¬ 
lowed  by  the  audience,  the  speaker  swallowing  an  equally 
colorless  fluid,  which  is  — I  really  don’t  believe  the  story 
myself—  which  is  — your  ear  a  little  closer  —  !  which  is  — 
gin  !  !  Shocking,  is  it  not  ?  But  as  I  said,  I  cannot  credit 
it  altogether,  for  a  while  since,  when  an  honorable  Senator 
who  had  been  accused  of  thus  infusing  spirit  into  his  oratory, 
was  on  the  second  or  third  day  of  his  speech,  I  observed 
him  narrowly,  and  saw  brought  to  him  a  reviving  beverage 
which  was  somewhat  colored  —  say  about  the  hue  of  Mo- 
nongahela  or  champagne.  It  certainly  was  not  gin ,  so  the 
slander  falls  to  the  ground. 

They  promise  us  that  early  next  week  the  Omnibus  Bill 
shall  be  disposed  of.  However  the  actors  may  feel,  we 
lookers-on  are  about  in  the  state  of  the  affectionate  husband 
whose  wife  lingered  long  in  a  decline,  and  who  having  often 
been  called  from  his  work  on  false  alarms  of  her  approach¬ 
ing  dissolution,  finally  expressed  the  meek  wish  that  ‘Betsey 

might  get  well,  or  —  something .’ 

&  &  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXIX. 


Washington,  July  25th,  1850. 


As  you  have  seen  by  the  daily  reports,  nothing  of  im 
portance  as  regards  the  great  Compromise  measure  has 


328 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


been  done  thus  far,  this  week,  and  little  of  moment  has  been 
said  in  its  favor,  with  the  exception  of  the  great  speech  of 
Mr.  Clay  on  Monday.  This  was  indeed  a  magnificent  effort. 
At  his  advanced  age,  to  be  able  to  stand  up  and  speak  so 
eloquently  and  so  powerfully  for  three  hours  of  an  oppres¬ 
sively  hot  day,  proves  the  Kentucky  statesman  to  be  one  of 
the  wonders  of  our  time  and  country. 

There  were  some  exceedingly  fine  passages  in  that  speech, 
and  some  which  hardly  struck  one  as  very  happy.  That 
portion  referring  to  Mr.  Rhett,  and  his  late  ‘  treasonable  ’ 
course,  the  reply  to  Mr.  Barnwell,  who  rushed  into  the 
lion’s  mouth  with  a  fool-hardiness  absolutely  appalling,  and 
the  bold  rebuke  of  Southern  ultraism,  were  grand  exhibitions 
of  power  and  spirit.  But  the  lie  direct  given  to  the  grave 
and  dignified  Senator  from  Massachusetts,  1  Honest  John 
Davis  ’  —  and  the  subsequent  severe  and  dictatorial  lecture 
which  he  read  that  gentleman,  surprised  and  shocked  many, 
and  must  have  offended  some  of  his  audience.  Then  there 
was  one  particular  passage  intended  evidently  to  be  very 
*  touching  and  effective,  but  which  was  rather  a  failure ;  that 
in  which  the  venerable  father  of  the  Compromise  solemnly 
warned  the  Senators  of  serious  domestic  consequences  should 
they  return  to  their  patriotic  wives  after  having  voted  against 
that  measure  —  a  mild  and  melancholy  suggestion  of  Caudle 
welcomes  and  curtain  lectures  awaiting  the  transgressors. 
This  picture,  though  vivid,  and  perhaps  full  of  meaning  to 
such  Senators  as  had  wives  especially  friendly  to  Mr.  Clay 
and  his  policy,  was  somewhat  ludicrous  to  others  —  a  smile 
passed  round  the  Senate  Chamber.  The  sentimental  is  not 
Mr.  Clay’s  forte. 

In  the  manner  and  voice  of  Mr.  Clay  is  the  greatest 
display  of  his  power.  As  literary  compositions  his  speeches 
do  not  compare  favorably  with  those  of  Mr.  Webster,  they 
do  not  read  so  finely,  but  they  are  infinitely  more  effective 
when  spoken.  The  illuminative  glow  of  his  face,  the  pride 
of  his  attitudes,  the  force  of  his  gestures,  the  passion  of  his 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


329 


tones,  his  quick  wit,  his  tact,  his  persuasion  and  his  flatteries, 
managed  as  they  usually  are  with  consummate  address, 
carry  all  before  him  —  at  least  for  the  time.  His  auditory 
seemed  charmed  by  his  voice,  swayed  by  his  will,  and  over¬ 
mastered  by  his  eloquence.  Whether  the  effect  is  really 
deep  and  lasting  —  whether  he  really  moulds  and  creates 
public  sentiment,  I  am  not  politician  enough  to  decide. 

We  have  had  rather  dull  times  since  the  effort  of  Mr. 
Clay,  but  some  little  excitement  and  light  skirmishing. 
Mr.  Benton  has  been  up  two  or  three  times,  speaking  in 
his  own  strong  and  mercilessly  satirical  style.  Mr.  Rusk 
has  given  us  a  most  alarming  speech  on  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  Texas.  It  was  curious  and  significant  to  observe 
that  while  he  talked  of  an  appeal  to  arms,  —  of  danger  and 
devastation,  fire  and  sword,  blood  and  blunderbusses,  near 
him  sat  his  gallant  and  illustrious  colleague,  quietly  pursuing 
his  favorite  amusement,  whittling  away  coolly  and  com¬ 
posedly  —  as  the  imperial  violinist  kept  up  the  music  while 
Rome  was  burning. 

I  leave  Washington  to-morrow  morning — so,  after  all,  I 
am  not  to  be  in  at  the  death,  or  witness  the  triumph  of  this 
famous  bill,  which  has  called  forth  so  vast,  such  an  im¬ 
measurable  amount  of  senatorial  and  editorial  thunder  — 
which  must  die  hard,  after  a  long  agony,  or  through  much 
tribulation  enter  into  the  laws  of  the  land.  It  is  most  evident 
that  the  heart  of  Mr.  Clay  is  bound  up  with  this  measure  — 
it  is  even  feared  that  his  energies,  his  very  life,  would  die 
out,  or  be  laid  on  the  table  with  it ;  for  it  is  his  last  object, 
hope  and  pride,  the  child  of  his  old  age,  his  Benjamin. 

During  my  visits  to  the  Capitol,  I  have  spent  less  time  in 
the  House  than  I  expected.  There  has  been  little  going  on 
there  of  general  interest.  I  was  seldom  able  to  get  the  run 
of  the  debates  —  the  House  itself  seemed  a  discursive  and 
a  disorderly,  rather  than  a  deliberative  body,  a  place  where 
all  policies  and  political  parties  seem  in  a  state  of  fusion  and 
confusion.  There  seems  a  sad  want  of  harmony  in  action,  a 

28* 


330 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


lack  of  leadership  among  the  members ;  but  there  is  much 
individual  independence  and  force  of  character.  They  aie 
evidently  an  undrivable,  and  we  must  hope  also  an  unbribable 
set  of  men.  They  have  not,  it  is  true,  the  dignity,  the  repose, 
or  the  aristocratic  tendencies  of  the  Senate,  where  one  is 
often  shocked  out  of  a  severe  republican  simplicity  by  such 
expressions  as  ‘  the  very  distinguished  and  honorable  Senatoi 
from  Massachusetts,’  or  ‘the  Right  Honorable  Senatoi  from 
Kentucky.’ 

I  have  had  a  time  of  much  pleasure,  and  I  hope  some 
profit,  in  Washington.  It  is  hardly  the  season  for  visiting, 
and  I  suppose  I  have  seen  less  of  the  society  of  the  city  than 
I  should  see,  could  I  visit  there  in  the  winter.  But  I  have 
nevertheless  received  much  kindly  attention,  for  which  I 
have  to  thank  mv  new-found  friends'. 

Adieu. 


LETTER  XXX. 

Lynn,  Mass.,  Oct.  12,  lb50. 

This  morning  I  must  write  you  a  brief  letter  on  the  one 
great  subject  of  the  day  —  Jenny  Lind.  I  attended  the 
charity  concert  given  by  her  on  Thursday  evening  last,  and 
my  simple  inartistic  impressions  of  the  singer,  you  will  take 
for  what  they  are  worth. 

The  first  entrance  of  Jenny  Lind  was  made  with  a  pecu¬ 
liar  and  attractive  grace,  half  modest  shyness,  half-affec¬ 
tionate  confidence.  Her  smile  was  very  sweet  and  winning, 
though  it  passed  rapidly.  She  had  more  beauty  than  I  had 
been  led  to  expect,  not  of  features,  or  complexion,  but  her 
face  is  a  gloriously  expressive  one,  and  the  tout  ensemble 
of  her  presence  is  indescribably  pleasing,  lou  may  be 
surprised,  knowing  me  to  be  the  reverse  of  tranquil  and  self- 
possessed,  when  1  tell  you  that  I  did  not  become  greatly 
excited  once  during  the  evening.  I  was  deeply  impressed, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


331 


rapt,  subdued,  charmed  into  a  breathless  silence  more  than 
once,  but  not  wrought  up  into  an  ecstasy,  or  thrown  into  a 
delirium  of  delight.  Truth,  with  her  passionate  singing  and 
acting,  has  excited  me  more  powerfully. 

M’lle  Lind  first  sang  an  air  from  the  Oratorio  of  4  Elijah  ’ 
— 4  If  with  all  your  hearts.’  This,  it  was  said,  was  hardly 
calculated  to  display  the  peculiar  power  of  her  voice,  but  it 
was  surely  very  grand  as  an  expression  of  her  soul.  Here 
it  was  no  merely  pretty  phrase,  but  seemed  the  simple 
truth  to  say,  that  she  sang  like  an  angel.  The  very  light  ot 
heaven  seemed  resting  on  her  upturned  brow,  and  beaming 
from  her  deep,  blue  eyes.  While  she  sang  —  4  If  with  all 
your  hearts  you  truly  seek  me ,  ye  shall  ever  surely  find  me ,’ — 
she  looked  the  angel-presentment  ot  that  beautiful  promise 
of  God  ;  and  when  — 4  Oh,  that  I  knew  where  I  might  find 
Him ,  that  I  might  ever  come  before  His  presence  ’  —  she 
seemed  the  impersonation  of  mortal  prayer,  waiting  on  the 
grace  of  the  Father,  and  meekly  inquiring  the  way  into 
His  presence. 

I  remember  Jenny  Lind  by  this  recitative  more  than  by 
any  thing  else  which  she  sang,  though  the  songs  which  fol¬ 
lowed  were  far  more  brilliant.  I  remember  her  sweet  face 
with  that  light  of  adoration  upon  it.  So  it  has  come  to  me 
since,  in  moments  of  thought  and  stillness,  so  it  shiries  upon 
me  at  night,  so  it  will  ever  remain  with  me,  when  the  last 
faint  echo  of  her  glorious  voice  has  died  upon  the  ear  of  my 
spirit. 

M’lle' Lind  sang  another  sacred  air,  from  the  German,  in 
the  same  Madonna-like  manner  —  next  that  beautiful  cava¬ 
tina  from  La  Somnambula  — 4  Come  per  me  Sereno.  This 
was  magnificent  beyond  what  words  of  mine  may  describe. 
It  was  the  sweet,  exulting,  and  triumphant  utterance  of  love 
and  joy.  4  The  Invitation  to  the  Dance,’  a  Dalecailian 
Melody,  and  the  Swedish  Mountaineer’s  Song,  concluded 
the  evening.  In  these  M’lle  Lind  accompanied  herself  on 
the  piano,  in  a  most  charming  manner.  The  first  was  a 


332 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES* 


wild,  free,  dashing  melody,  and,  while  singing  it,  Jenny 
looked  the  very  soul  of  mirth  and  mischief.  Ah,  how  her 
blue  eyes  sparkled,  how  her  white  teeth  gleamed,  and  her 
red  lip  curled,  how  arch  was  the  toss  of  her  head,  and  how 
her  hands  frolicked  over  the  keys  !  In  the  last  song,  there 
was  introduced  a  most  wonderful  vocal  imitation  of  the  notes 
of  a  horn,  dying  away  in  the  distance.  This  you  must  your¬ 
self  hear  before  you  can  have  any  idea  of  it.  It  is  certainly 
very  marvellous  and  delicious,  but  does  not  touch  any 
deeper  feeling  than  a  sort  of  childish  delight.  It  strongly 
strikes  me  that  Jenny  Lind’s  greatest  power  is  in  sacred 
music.  In  these  wild,  thrilling  melodies,  wonderful  and 
electrifying  as  they  are,  her  voice  is  but  the  lark,  soaring 
upward  and  upward,  till  it  almost  reaches  the  golden  gates  ; 
while  in  sacred  music  it  seems  to  come  down  to  us  from  heaven 
—  a  portion  of  that  immortal  harmony  which  swells  about 
God’s  throne,  the  utterance  of  angelic  joy  and  adoration.  I 
believe  that  Jenny  herself  has  a  deeper  delight  in  this  style  of 
singing  into  which  she  seems  to  throw  her  whole  soul,  than 
in  those  wonderful  vocal  exercises,  those  exquisite  feats  of 
ventriloquism,  which,  at  the  best,  but  astonish  and  flatter  the 
ear,  exciting  a  curious  and  transient  admiration,  sometimes 
taking  you  off  your  feet,  but  never  setting  you  up  higher 
than  you  stood  before. 

On  the  night  that  I  saw  her,  M’lle  Lind’s  manner  was  said 
to  be  more  serious  and  subdued  than  usual.  During  the 
first  of  the  evening,  I  thought  it  more  than  serious,  even  sad. 
The  shadow  of  some  great  care  seemed  every  now  and  then 
to  be  resting  on  her  fair,  womanly  brow,  and  some  unspeak¬ 
able  trouble  seemed  to  have  half  darkened  the  pleasant  light 
of  her  eyes.  I  fancied  that  the  barrier  was  very  slight  that 
kept  back  a  passionate  gush  of  tears  ;  that  standing  though 
she  was  in  the  midst  of  a  multitude,  the  bountiful  giver  of 
great  delight,  she  was  sick  and  lonely  at  heart ;  that  the 
bright  lips  through  which  flowed  waves  of  delicious  sound, 
drooped  from  inward  sorrow,  from  weariness  with  her  life  of 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


333 


brilliant  toil  and  splendid  bondage.  I  felt  all  this,  and  with 
the  impression  came  an  intense  sympathy  with  the  woman, 
surpassing  even  my  admiration  for  the  singer.  Grand  and 
glorious  as  she  is  —  the  hope  of  thousands,  the  idol  of  the 
world,  in  her  woman's  heart  there  are  wants,  fond,  but  im¬ 
perious,  which  power  and  praise  and  adoration  cannot  satisfy 
—  in  her  woman’s  heart  there  are,  there  must  be,  sorrows 
4  with  which  the  stranger  intermeddleth  not.’  There  are 
seasons  when  even  a  great  soul  like  hers,  must  bow  beneath 
the  weight  of  mortal  weariness  —  a  bright  soul  like  hers,  pass 
through  storm  and  shadow,  and  see  no  rest  on  all  the  earth, 
no  light  in  all  the  heaven. 

I  think  that  we  should  oftener  consider  these  things  in 
reference  to  the  singer,  and  not  look  upon  her,  as  we  too  fre¬ 
quently  do,  as  a  mere  sweet-voiced  minister  to  our  pleasure, 
a  soulless  artiste,  a  sort  of  musical  automaton.  For,  with 
the  peculiar  organization  which  renders  her  a  great  singer, 
she  is  more  perilously  endowed  with  passion  and  sensibility, 
demands  larger  sympathies,  and  needs  to  be  more  tenderly 
regarded  than  other  women.  But  from  her  position,  she 
often  seems  to  the  world  indifferent  and  self-sustained,  if  not 
proud  and  repellant ;  she  does  not  ask  its  sympathy  in  words, 
she  would  breathe  it  in  from  the  atmosphere  which  surrounds 
her,  and  give  it  forth  again  in  glad,  deep  harmonies,  through 
which  we  may  almost  hear  the  warm,  high  throbbings  of  her 
grateful  heart. 

I  have  little  fear,  that  after  having  Jenny  and  her  satel¬ 
lites  with  you  a  day  or  two,  you  will  laugh  at  our  furor. 
Or  if  you  have  4  no  music  in  your  souls,’  or  even,  if  like 
Aunt  Betsey  Trotwood,  you  resolutely  stop  your  ears  with 
jeweller’s  cotton,  if  you  only  look  on  Jenny ,  I  defy  you  to 
resist  the  freshness,  the  naturalness,  the  pure  womanliness 
of  her  presence.  Adieu. 


334 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


LETTER  XXXI. 

TO  THE  EDITOR.  OF  THE  NATIONAL  ERA. 

Boston,  Nov.  12th,  1850. 

The  universal  excitement,  on  the  Fugitive  Slave  bill,  still 
continues  ;  and  this  is  well.  The  great  Norfhein  heart  is 
awakened  at  last.  You  may  feel  and  hear  its  live  pulsations, 
full  and  warm  and  vigorous  as  in  the  brave  old  time.  The 
clergy  of  Massachusetts,  as  far  as  I  can  learn,  aie,  with 
some  sad  exceptions,  taking  strong  ground  against  This 
measure.  It  would  seem  that  every  true  minister  of  Jesus, 
wherever  he  might  be,  if  ‘  remembering  those  in  bonds  as 
bound  with  them,’  must  denounce  it  boldly  and  utteily,  even 
at  the  risk  of  giving  mortal  ofFence  to  his  beloved  chaige,  and 
of  being  called  upon  to  make  a  hasty  Hegira  from  his  palish. 
Our  minister  at  Lynn,  Mr.  Shackford,  has  preached  upon  this 
subject  with  eloquence  and  power.  He  gave  us  the  honest 
convictions  and  indignant  protestations  of  the  man,  with  all 
fearlessness,  but  with  the  calm  fervor  and  deep  religious 
faith  which  ever  characterize  his  preaching.  He  is  not 
frenzied  or  despairing  at  the  temporary  triumph  of  wiong. 
He  sees  that  it  is  not  a  new  creation,  nor  even  a  laigei 
growth,  but  only  a  plainer  revelation  of  the  great  national 
evil,  thrown  to  the  surface  by  the  working  and  upheaving  of 
the  eternal  principle  of  good.  And  how  far  hettei  thus  on 

the  hidden  reef  the  ship  strikes. 

Mr.  Parker’s  Sermon  on  Conscience  you  have  probably 
seen.  It  is  a  succession  of  bold  Herculean  strokes,  which 
must  have  told  on  the  heart  of  every  hearer.  It  was  one 
of  those  impassioned,  startling,  almost  terrifying  appeals,  so 
needed  to  stay  the  decline  and  fall  of  the  moral  sense  of  oui 

age. 

On  Tuesday  evening  last,  Charles  Sumner  delivered  a 
magnificent  Free  Soil  speech  in  Faneuil  Hall.  I  hope  you 
may  yet  read  it,  though  your  pleasure  must  necessarily  be 
imperfect  without  the  deep,  impressive  voice,  which,  in  its 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


335 


4  sea-like  volume,’  rolled  the  thought  over  one,  and  the 
action  of  the  orator,  always  forcible,  at  times  singularly  fine, 
and  in  the  best  sense  dramatic. 

In  the  way  of  literary  intelligence,  I  have  little  to  com¬ 
municate.  The  season  of  lectures  is  just  commencing.  I 
listened  this  morning  to  one  on  poetry,  by  Mr.  Scherb,  a 
young  German  of  true  genius.  He  is  a  strong  thinker,  and 
has  the  utmost  boldness  and  originality  of  expression.  He 
speaks  much  of  the  time  in  a  perfect  passion  of  enthusiasm. 
He  now  seems  rapt,  possessed,  borne  away  with  his  subject, 
and  now  he  wrestles  and  agonizes  with  some  mighty 
thought  or  unutterable  aspiration.  He  speaks  our  language 
with  correctness,  and  often  with  singular  force,  yet  there 
are  times  when  he  pauses,  as  though  momentarily  de¬ 
spairing  of  the  power  of  words,  and  lets  the  strong  play  of 
his  lips,  the  flame  in  his  eye,  and  the  passion  working  in  all 
his  frame,  speak  for  him,  as  they  can  speak  with  a  dramatic 
effect  almost  startling.  You  cannot  stand  against  him  —  he 
dashes  against  you,  surges  about  you,  and  overflows  you 
with  the  irresistible  torrent  of  his  enthusiasm.  Not  that  it  is 
all  tempest,  in  force  and  sound.  The  largest  waves  are 
capped  with  sunlight,  and  between  their  booming  and  swell¬ 
ing  is  often  heard  the  soft  chime  and  delicious  rippling  of 
most  musical  waters.  Fancy,  taste,  an  ever-present  sense 
of  the  beautiful,  soften  the  intense  poetic  fervor,  and  some¬ 
what  subdue  the  otherwise  too  dramatic  and  overpowering 
passion  of  the  speaker.  But,  as  it  is,  he  shakes  one  to  the 
soul’s  centre.  I  felt  both  excited  and  exhausted  when  I  left 
the  lecture-room,  felt  as  I  had  thought  I  could  only  feel 
after  hearing  some  great  moral  question  discussed  by  a 
great  orator,  let  Mr.  Scherb  made  poetry  more  than  a 
moral,  he  made  it  a  religious ,  subject.  He  seemed  to  bring 
to  Poesy  all  the  devotion  which  a  zealous  Catholic  gives  to 
Madonna.  He  burned  his  purest  thought  like  incense  before 
her  shrine,  where  he  knelt  in  deepest  adoration.  He  seemed 


336 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


the  prophet,  the  inspired  preacher  of  that  divinest  hand¬ 
maiden  of  God.  ^ 

Among  Ticknor’s  late  publications  is  the  1  Astr^ea,’  of 
Holmes.  This  poem  is  like  every  thing  from  his  diamond- 
pointed  pen,  brilliant,  racy,  and  peculiar.  Yet  I  should  say 
the  poet  has  here  given  us  less  drollery  and  more  wit  than 
usual.  We  miss  somewhat  that  genial  philosophy  which 
makes  the  best  of  life,  and  takes  the  world  easy,  which  has 
so  often  delighted  us  in  this  poet’s  brief  pleasure  trips  upon 
the  sea  of  literature.  His  satire  stings  more  sharply,  and 
cuts  deeper,  than  ever  before.  There  are  some  hard  hits  at 
the  Reformer,  which  remind  one  of  Dean  Swift ;  and  which 
it  strikes  one  the  poet  might  have  penned  with  a  cold  in  his 
head,  on  some  raw  March  morning,  while  waiting  for  a  late 
breakfast.  To  speak  plainly,  they  are  not  remarkable  as 
expressions  of  good-nature  and  charitableness.  But  there 
are  generous,  after-dinner  passages,  beautiful,  musical,  or 
deliciously  droll,  which  make  up  for  these  things.  We 
must  not  forget  that  this  contemptuous  conservatism,  which 
is  the  reverse  of  agreeable  to  us  fanatics,  is  the  greenest  leaf 
in  the  bays  of  the  poet  to  the  eyes  of  a  majority  of  his 
readers,  and  probably  nobody  is  more  fully  aware  of  this 
than  the  poet  himself.  Why  should  he  refrain  from  voicing 
his  own  thought,  knowing  it  will  be  rendered  back  to  him  in 
such  ready  echoes  from  high  places  ?  There  is  little  dangei 
of  Holmes  being  sent  from  Parnassus  to  Coventry  on  any 
sorry  hobby  of  reform. 

G.  P.  R.  James,  the  novelist,  is  now  in  Boston.  I  have  met 
him  a  number  of  times  at  Ticknor’s.  He  is  a  fine,  genial- 
looking,  well-conditioned  Englishman,  singulaily  youthful 
and  unworn  in  appearance,  considering  all  that  he  has 
accomplished,  and  seems  fully  competent  to  set  at  least 
threescore  and  ten  more  horsemen  not  4  slowly  ’  riding  up  the 
hills  of  romance  and  fame.  Doubtless  his  fruitful  brain  yet 
holds  any  number  of  disinherited  heirs,  knights,  barons  bold, 
smugglers,  gypsies,  bandits  and  friars,  princesses  in  dis 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


337 


guise,  damsels  fair  and  witches  old,  all  impatiently  waiting 
for  their  turn  to  come  round.  Apropos  of  witches,  I  hear 
that  Mr.  James  has  been  in  Salem,  collecting  materials 
for  a  new  romance,  of  the  good  old  time,  when  elderly 
ladies,  remarkable  for  personal  plainness  and  a  fondness  for 
black  cats,  and  convicted  of  putting  broomsticks  to  equestrian 
service,  were  straightway  removed  from  an  indignant  com¬ 
munity  by  summary  process.  The  denouement  may  be 
the  trial  by  water  and  fire,  and  the  whole  interest  of  the 
story  hang  on  ‘  Witch  Hill.’  Yet  I  hardly  think  this  novelist 
needed  such  a  subject,  in  order  to  bewitch  his  readers. 

By  the  way,  while  on  a  late  visit  to  Salem,  I  was  shown 
the  veritable  bewitched  pins,  with  which  divers  persons  were 
sorely  pricked  by  the  wicked  spite  of  certain  witches  and 
wizards,  often  their  neighbors,  and  sometimes  their  near 
relations,  as  the  depositions  show.  Very  annoying,  such 
pointed  attentions  even  from  one’s  friends.  These  curious 
relics  are  kept  in  a  small  vial  —  verily  a  vial  of  wrath. 
They  seem  quite  bright,  considering  their  great  age,  keen 
old  pins  yet,  and  very  little  rusted  by  the  blood  of  the 
saints. 

Oh !  happy  are  the  witches  of  our  day,  who  may  weave 
their  spells  and  perform  their  incantations  in  peace  and 
safety,  since,  thanks  to  cosmetics  and  millinery,  they  are 
youthful  and  beautiful  for  a  marvellous  length  of  time, 
since  they  abandon  the  evil-eyed  cat  for  the  sleepy  French 
lap-dog,  and  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  broomsticks.  It 
is  true  they  sometimes  prick  on  their  victims  to  deeds  of 
4  hiohi  emprise,’  or  pin  them  down  to  the  point,  but  in 
return  they  are  not  mercilessly  handed  over  to  the  sheriff — 
only  led  before  the  priest.  Adieu. 


29 


I 


338 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


LETTER  XXXII. 

Boston,  November  18th,  1850. 

The  forenoon  of  Saturday  last  I  spent  at  the  Asylum  for 
the  Blind,  in  South  Boston.  It  was  my  first  visit  to  an 
institution  of  the  kind,  and  I  was  intensely  interested,  almost 
too  powerfully  affected.  Many  of  the  pupils,  I  observed, 
had  some  physical  defect  aside  from  their  blindness,  yet 
there  were  some  exceedingly  pleasing  in  appearance.  I 
observed  also  that  the  faces  of  the  little  girls  wore  a  patient, 
quiet,  sweet,  and  contented  expression,  while  the  boys 
looked  less  happy,  and  in  some  instances  rebellious,  under 
their  fearful  misfortune.  Yet  in  music  all  seemed  to  forget 
the  hardness  of  their  lot.  They  sung  and  played  with  an 
enthusiasm,  a  fervor,  and  a  passionate  abandon  to  the  enjoy¬ 
ment,  peculiar  to  them,  I  thought.  If  there  was  more 
strength  of  lungs  than  sweetness  of  tone,  and  more  of  vigor 
than  skill  in  execution  apparent,  one  could  understand  it  all, 
and  the  heart  was  more  touched  than  it  could  be  by  far 
sweeter  and  more  artistic  music  elsewhere.  It  were  most 
unreasonable  to  ask  a  measured  flow  and  soft  cadences  from 
the  outgush  of  a  long  pent-up  stream.  But  there  were  some 
voices  in  the  choir  which  struck  me  as  very  fine,  and 
promising  much  if  carefully  cultivated. 

I  saw  Laura  Bridgman,  who,  with  her  interesting  teacher, 
was  the  centre  of  attraction  while  she  remained  in  the 
school-room.  Laura  is  a  very  neat  and  pleasing  person, 
with  a  bright  intelligent  face,  and  almost  a  superabundance 
of  life  and  childish  merriment  in  her  manner  and  action. 
She  will  fling  her  arms  around  her  teacher  and  laugh  im¬ 
moderately  at  any  little  thing  which  pleases  her.  She 
converses  in  the  mute  language  with  the  utmost  rapidity  and 
enthusiasm.  While  we  were  present,  she  was  telling  a 
friend  of  the  loss  of  a  canary  which  he  had  given  her.  He 
said  he  would  send  her  another,  and  asked  her  what  sort  of 
a  bird  it  should  be.  c  Oh,’  she  answered,  4  let  it  be  a  bird 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


339 


of  bright  plumage,  and  a  sweet  singer.  I  would  have  no 
other.’ 

Laura  seems  a  mirthful,  affectionate  child,  and  yet  she 
impressed  me  painfully,  as  a  spirit  which  knew  no  rest,  no  • 
calm,  no  true  content.  Her  soul  seemed  like  a  light  burning 
in  a  prison-cell,  and  only  gleaming  through  one  small  barred 
window,  or  like  a  strong  bird  in  a  narrow  cage,  struggling  to 
be  free.  And  so  to  me  it  seems  it  must  ever  be  ;  all  the 
knowledge  to  which  she  may  attain,  all  the  joy  of  love  which 
may  visit  her  sad  heart,  can  only  render  more  intense  and 
abiding  the  longing  for  that  greater  knowledge  to  which  she 
may  never  attain,  for  that  strange,  indefinable  happiness 
which  here  she  can  never  know. 

A  lady  was  telling  me  the  other  day  that  she  once  met 
Laura  Bridgman  at  Miss  Bremer’s  room,  in  Boston,  when 
Fanny  Kemble  was  present.  Could  the  world  furnish  a 
more  touching  contrast  ?  That  poor,  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind 
girl,  with  nothing  to  speak  for  her  but  the  play  of  her 
fingers,  her  quick,  nervous  gestures,  and  the  wan  sunshine 
of  a  smile  unaided  by  the  light  of  kindling  eyes ;  and  that 
grandly  dowered  child  of  genius,  with  her  almost  super¬ 
human  power  of  expression,  with  her  wondrous  voice, 
through  which  speaks  every  human  affection  and  passion, 
with  her  air,  her  action,  and  the  splendid  fire  of  her  great 
eyes,  now  gleaming  out  pride,  or  hate,  or  defiance,  from 
their  dark  depths,  now  reproachful,  now  mournful,  now 
sparkling  and  dancing  with  joy,  now  drooping  with  a  dreamy 

tenderness,  and  now  upraised  in  the  trance  of  some  divine 
.  .  / 
aspiration. 

Laura  Bridgman  is  said  to  be  making  constant  and  won¬ 
derful  progress  in  her  studies,  and  in  her  improvement  and 
happiness  her  instructor,  Dr.  Howe,  must  daily  be  receiving 
his  1  exceeding  great  reward  ’  for  all  his  patient  toil  and  dis¬ 
interested  devotion. 

We  also  visited  the  School  for  Idiots,  established  by  Dr. 
Howe,  but  under  the  care  of  Mr.  Richards,  a  young  man 


340 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


who  has  given  himself  up  to  a  painful  duty  with  a  most  noble 
and  self-sacrificing  spirit. 

I  had  always  shrunk  with  involuntary  and  uncontrollable 
disgust  from  scenes  such  as  I  supposed  this  school  must 
present ;  but  I  summoned  all  my  strength,  and  entered,  soon 
to  find  the  pain  and  sickness  of  the  soul  lost  in  a  grateful 
and  wondering  pleasure.  Never  before  had  I  felt  myself 
capable  of  any  thing  better  than  a  shuddering  pity  for  those 
poor  senseless  creatures,  those  living  bodies  of  death,  regard¬ 
ing  them  almost  as  the  outcasts  of  nature  and  the  disowned 
and  disinherited  children  of  God.  I  had -believed  them  by  a 
hard  necessity  abandoned  to  the  narrowest,  darkest  sphere  of 
human  existence,  aimless,  companionless,  utterly  desolate. 
But  here  I  found  these  same  beings,  whose  condition  I  had 
looked  upon  as  in  the  last  degree  hopeless,  steadily,  though 
slowly  advancing  from  one  small  degree  of  intelligence  to 
another  —  feeling  emulation,  catching  gleams  of  reason 
and  sense,  feebly  putting  forth  their  long-benumbed  mental 
feelers,  and  grasping  such  scraps  of  knowledge  as  they  have 
room  for  in  the  narrow  chambers  of  their  poor  cramped 

brains. 

The  behavior  of  those  pupils  who  had  been  any  length  ot 
time  in  the  school  was  most  remarkable  for  quiet  and  pro¬ 
priety.  The  contrast  between  them  and  a  boy  who  had  ar¬ 
rived  but  the  day  before  was  very  striking.  None  could  be 
more  aware  than  the  pupils  of  the  improprieties,  eccen¬ 
tricities,  and  lawlessness,  of  their  green  companion.  They 
seemed  actually  shocked  at  the  outlandish  ways  of  the 
strange  boy,  and  with  the  liberties  he  was  inclined  to  Jake 

with  the  visitors. 

These  unfortunate  children  are  first  taught  to  exercise  their 
limbs,  in  almost  every  case  feeble,  or  deformed  to  feed 
themselves,  and  hold  up  their  heads.  All,  in  time,  learn  to 
take  some  care  of  themselves,  and  become  less  and  less 
objects  of  painful  commiseration  and  disgust. 

Mr.  Richards  does  not  attempt  to  teach  the  alphabet 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


341 


separately,  but  puts  the  pupils  at  once  into  words,  printed  in 
large  type  on  strips  of  paper,  and  teaches  them  to  spell  by 
means  of  letters  on  small  blocks  of  wood.  One  little  fellow, 
with  a  head  scarcely  larger  than  a  pippin,  spelt  out  for  us 
the  Lord’s  Prayer,  without  an  error.  This  was  one  of  the 
most  profoundly  affecting  of  sights  to  me.  That  mindless 
child  so  unconsciously  praying  to  the  Immortal  Father,  the 
thought  of  whose  existence  was  too  great  for  the  narrow 
head  to  receive,  but  whose  love  lived  in  the  simple  heart 
that  strove  to  be  ‘  good,’  and  leaped  up  at  the  voice  of  en¬ 
couragement  and  praise.  It  was  indeed  a  pleasure  to  observe 
the  happiness  of  these  children  whenever  they  had  acquitted 
themselves  well.  When  first  they  grasp  a  new  thought  or 
fact,  their  joy  in  the  possession  is  touching  to  behold.  Then 
looking  down  into  those  eyes,  dimmed  by  the  heavy  mists  of 
idiocy,  you  can  see  the  far,  faint  flash  of  the  deathless  soul, 
as  though  for  a  moment  gleaming  up  from  an  abyss  of 
shadows. 

The  unwearying  patience,  the  unfailing  kindness,  and  the 
wise  gentleness,  of  the  teachers  of  this  school,  are  subjects  of 
wondering  admiration  to  all  visitors.  May  God’s  strength 
and  blessing  continue  to  support  them  and  hallow  their  gooci 
work.  Let  none  be  disappointed  and  disheartened  that  the 
results  are  small,  but  hail  with  grateful  joy,  the  most  inar¬ 
ticulate  cry  of  the  soul  which  for  years  has  slept  in  the  night 
and  torpor  of  idiocy.  The  mine  is  dark  and  noisome,  and 
the  ore  not  rich  ;  all  the  more  honor  to  those  who  labor  so 
patiently  to  bring  it  forth.  The  rock  is  hard  and  unpromis¬ 
ing,  and  long  and  wearisome  must  be  the  toil  ere  it  cleaves, 
and  shows  the  small  soul-crystal  within.  The  soldiers  of  the 
Empire  served  faithfully  for  small  pay  ;  but  when  it  came 
at  last,  each  coin  had  a  double  value  for  bearing  the  head  of 
Napoleon.  Thus  the  true  philanthropist  ever  sees  on  his 
hard-earned  rewards  the  face  of  his  Divine  Master,  and  is 
abundantly  repaid. 

After  all,  if  the  just  Creator  regards  not  his  children 
29* 


342 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


according  to  the  measure  of  their  brains,  but  by  the  inno¬ 
cence  of  their  hearts,  how  much  higher  in  His  light  stand 
these  poor  witless  ones,  than  some  to  whom  we  pay  our 
blind  reverence,  yet  whose  grand  brows,  the  high  domes  of 
intellect  shrine  no  thought  of  the  true  God,  but  a  low,  mean 
idol  of  self,  before  which  the  incense  of  the  world’s  praise 
is  burned  day  and  night.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXIII. 

Washington,  January  16,  1851. 

Dear  W - :  Having  become  established  in  my  winter 

quarters,  I  have  thought  that  some  little  chronicling  of  daily 
events,  and  an  occasional  sketch  of  life  in  the  Capital  city, 
might  not  be  uninteresting  to  you. 

On  the  evening  after  my  arrival,  I  attended  one  of  the 
President’s  levees.  This  I  found  a  great  crowd,  but  a  very 
pleasant  affair  notwithstanding,  as  here  I  met  many  friends 
and  acquaintance  of  last  session.  President  Fillmore  wore 
the  old,  urbane  smile,  and  gave  the  same  courteous  greeting 
to  all  who  approached.  I  wonder  if,  with  men  of  his  temper¬ 
ament,  good-nature  is  always  spontaneous  and  easy,  if  it 
never  drags.  I  have  often  thought  that  your  habitually  kind 
and  courteous  people  must  miss  a  great  luxury,  which  the 
more  passionate  and  bilious  enjoy  in  speaking  their  minds, 
with  a  careless  oT  vehement  boldness,  and  in  touching  up  the 
faults  and  follies  of  their  fellows. 

I  noticed  on  that  evening  an  endless  variety  of  costumes, 
the  national  spirit  of  independence  breaking  out  in  all  imag¬ 
inable  styles  and  colors,  and  that  every  body  wore  an  easy, 
at-home  manner.  There  is,  as  you  know,  at  these  levees, 
neither  music  nor  dancing,  but  people  look  very  gay,  never¬ 
theless,  as  they  collect  in  groups  to  laugh  and  chat,  or  stroll 
up  and  down,  admiring  and  criticising,  as  they  find  most 
matter  for  commendation  or  satire. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


343 


I  have  not  been  to  the  Capitol  much  as  yet ;  no  very  inter¬ 
esting  questions  having  been  up  for  discussion  of  late.  The 
Cheap  Postage  bill  before  the  House  is  one  of  most  im¬ 
portance  to  us  outsiders.  They  are  making  five-minutes’ 
speeches  upon  this,  which  are  sometimes  quite  amusing. 
The  difference  between  the  different  speakers’  powers  of 
condensation  and  directness  of  thought  is  here  most  appa¬ 
rent.  Now  and  then  rises  one,  who,  speaking  straight  to 
the  point,  is  able  to  say  his  say  distinctly  and  fully  within 
the  small  appointed  time  —  but,  alas!  the  Chairman’s  ham¬ 
mer  brings  many  a  poor  fellow  up  standing  in  the  first  faint 
dawn  of  thought,  cruelly  cuts  him  off  in  the  midst  of  a 
metaphor,  perhaps.  I  have  noticed  that  Mr.  Stanly,  of 
North  Carolina,  and  Mr.  Strong,  of  Pennsylvania,  are  par¬ 
ticularly  happy  in  packing  their  opinions  into  the  five-min¬ 
utes’  measure.  I  was  greatly  amused  the  other  day  by  a 
choice  bit  of  reasoning  employed  by  an  opponent  of  the 
bill.  ‘  If,’  said  he,  4  the  revenue  of  the  department  is  in¬ 
creased  in  proportion  to  the  reduction  of  postage,  as  the 
friends  of  the  measure  affirm,  do  away  with  postage  alto¬ 
gether,  and  what  an  immense  income  will  you  have  !  ’  This 
logic  is  like  the  Irishman’s,  who,  having  heard  a  new  patent 
stove  recommended  as  4  saving  half  the  fuel,  declaied  that 
he  would  have  two,  and  so  save  the  whole  ! 

In  the  Senate,  yesterday  morning,  Mr.  Clay  spoke  at 
some  length,  and  very  earnestly,  in  support  of  a  petition 
from  Rhode  Island,  against  the  African  slave  trade,  and  m 
favor  of  Colonization,  which  petition  the  distinguished  Sena¬ 
tor  impressively  declared  was  signed  by  a  large  portion 
of  the  elite  of  that  State ;  by  Governors  and  ex-Governors, 
Senators  and  ex-Senators,  members  and  ex-members;  by 
many  of  the  literati,  heads  of  colleges,  &c.  The  petition 
presented  under  such  august  auspices,  opens  with  a  fearful 
picture  of  the  slave  trade  as  it  yet  exists  with  all  its  out¬ 
rages,  horrors,  and  brutalities  —  no,  I  ask  pardon  of  those 
dumb,  unreasoning  creatures  who  have  never  been  degraded 


344 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


from  an  honest  brutehood  by  the  lust  of  tyranny  and  tne 
vile  love  of  money,  and  would  substitute  infernalities  for 
brutalities.  The  petitioners  then  proceed  to  point  out  Colo¬ 
nization  as  the  only  remedy  for  this  enormous  evil,  and  to 
ask  in  its  behalf  the  countenance  and  support  of  Govern¬ 
ment.  May  we  not  consider  the  long  vexed  and  vexatious 
question  settled  at  last  ?  Is  not  its  final  quietus  made  ? 
Statesmen,  divines,  authors,  and  philanthropists  will  argue, 
and  preach,  and  speculate  no  longer,  now  that  the  4  literati'’ 
of  Rhode  Island  have  pronounced  their  decision ;  and  most 
surely  the  free  colored  people  of  the  United  States  will 
doubt  and  demur  and  remonstrate  no  longer,  now  that  the 
elite  of  Rhode  Island  have  taken  their  poor  fortunes  in 
charge.  They  scarcely  expected  such  an  interposition  of 
Providence.  May  we  not  look  to  see  the  ocean  soon  white 
with  the  outward  bound  sails  of  government-furnished  fleets, 
bearing  to  the  far  land  of  their  grandfathers,  and  great¬ 
grandfathers,  America’s  oppressed  and  disowned  children  ? 
As  the  matter  now  stands,  the  free-colored  people  will 
surely  not  take  offence  at  being  publicly  branded  by  the 
distinguished  Senator,  as  a  4  degraded,  corrupt,  and  dissolute 
class;’  for,  under  the  patronage  of  the  literature,  divinity, 
and  fashion  of  a  sovereign  State,  are  they  not  going  forth 
to  civilize  and  Christianize  Africa ;  ‘  missionaries,’  according 
to  the  appointment  of  Clay,  4  priests  after  the  order  of  Dr. 
Tyng  ? 

Without  reference  to  Mr.  Clay,  whom  I  believe  sincere 
in  the  advocacy  of  his  favorite  impracticability,  as  a  benevo¬ 
lent  plan,  and  aside  from  his  political  interests,  I  can  but 
remark  that  I  am  often  struck  by  the  pious  phrases  and 
high-sounding  professions  of  philanthropy,  with  which  the 
speeches  of  politicians  abound,  when  upon  this  same  subject 
of  colonization.  Words  of  solemn  warning  and  severe 
morality,  never  brought  forth  on  any  other  occasion,  then 
come  with  ponderous  force  ;  and  the  name  of  the  Deity, 
not  precisely  a  stranger  in  their  vocabulary,  is  then  uttered 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


345 


in  a  new  connection,  and  in  a  tone  somewhat  less  easy  and 
familiar  than  that  in  which  it  is  heard  in  their  ordinary 
discourse.  An  organ-grinder,  under  my  window,  after  giv¬ 
ing  us  ‘  Jeannette  and  Jeannot,’  and  4  \  ankee  Doodle,  has, 
to  our  utter  astonishment,  struck  up  4  Old  Hundred.’  Who 
believes  that  the  Italian  stroller  feels  the  simple  solemnity 
of  that  grand  old  puritanical  air  ?  Does  he  not  mechani¬ 
cally  grind  out  religion,  as  he  does  sentiment  and  patriotism, 
because  it  pays  ? 

Last  evening,  the  ladies  at  the  National  Hotel  gave  a 
soiree ,  which  I  had  the  honor  of  attending.  It  was  a  veiy 
brilliant  affair,  a  scene  of  much  display  and  enjoyment. 
Almost  every  Washington  celebrity  was  there,  except  the 
great  American  statesman,  Webster,  and  the  little  Polish 
Lieutenant,  Jagiello.  I  noticed  the  French  Ministei  and 
his  family,  Lady  Bulwer,  Madame  Calderon,  and  the  half- 
ferocious,  half-comical  representative  of  the  Russian  Bcai, 
M.  Bodisco ;  the  elegant  Miss  Lynch  of  New  York,  and  the 
brilliant  Mrs.  Ashley  of  St.  Louis-— fine  types  of  the 
Northern  and  Southern  lady,  and  numbers  of  both  mations 
and  young  girls,  whose  enviable  distinctions  weie  beauty, 
gracefulness,  and  tasteful  dress.  And  there,  in  appaient 
fine  health  and  spirits,  were  Clay,  Cass,  Houston,  and 
Scott  —  an  interesting  little  bevy  of  Presidential  possibilities. 
Above  them  all,  like  Saul  above  his  brethren,  towered  the 
Herculean  hero  of  Vera  Cruz,  looking  far  more  like  the 
4  great  embodiment’  than  his  attenuated  Kentucky  rival. 

The  Michigan  statesman  would  well  fill  the  Presidential 
chair,  for  what  he  lacks  in  height,  he  makes  up  in  breadth, 
and  would  look  the  representative  of  the  more  solid,  con¬ 
servative,  respectable,  and  well-to-do  portion  of  the  nation ; 
such  as  large  merchants,  wealthy  planters,  law-abiding 
Doctors  of  Divinity,  substantial  Dutch  farmers,  peace-loving 
justices,  dinner-giving,  order-preserving  mayors,  and  their 
aldermanic  corps.  And  I  don’t  see  why  General  Houston 
is  not  as  well  fitted  for  that  great  chair  as  the  rest,  only 


346 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


let  him  be  put  under  bonds  not  to  whittle  the  arms  off.  On 
the  score  of  killing  Mexicans,  his  claim  is  older,  if  not 
stronger,  than  Scott’s ;  he  has  full  as  much  conciliatory 
suavity  as  Cass ;  in  the  opinion  of  his  enlightened  consti¬ 
tuents,  as  an  orator,  he  is  the  peer  of  Clay,  while  he  has 
the  advantage  of  Webster  in  the  faithful  devotion  of  his 
State.  In  truth,  I  do  not  see  but  that  his  claims  are 
not  only  good,  but  pressing  upon  the  patriotism  and  grati¬ 
tude  of  the  country  ;  he  has  an  imposing  person,  he  has 
political  experience,  he  has  military  renown,  he  has  South¬ 
ern  principles.  Take  away  his  jack-knife,  and  give  him  a 
hat  of  Christian  fashion,  and  he  will  surely  answer. 

We  have  had  for  the  past  week  the  most  deliciously 
unseasonable  weather  you  can  imagine.  I  am  writing  this 
morning  near  an  open  window,  through  which  pours  a  rich 
flood  of  summer  sunlight,  while,  to  make  the  illusion  perfect, 
from  a  balcony  near  comes  the  matin  song  of  a  canary, 
with  no  hint  of  a  cage  in  the  blithe  warble.  Think  of  this 
for  your  comfort,  as  you  battle  with  the  East  wind  in  your 
morning  walk,  or  shiver  over  the  register  on  your  return. 

I  am  struck  with  the  beautifying  and  revivifying  effect 
which  this  climate  seems  to  have  on  the  complexion  of 
many  ladies.  I  never  saw  such  brilliant  color  as  positively 
illuminates  the  fair  faces  one  meets  on  the  Avenue,  these 
sunny  days.  Not  the  deep,  universal,  vulgarly  healthy  glow 
which  a  frosty  morning  spreads  over  the  countenances  of 
your  Northern  beauties,  but  a  bright,  changeless  carnation, 
which  stays  where  it  belongs,  in  the  cheeks  and  lips,  and 
never  shoots  up  into  the  brow  which  lies  like  a  line  of  snow 
above  it,  nor  makes  impertinent  incursions  into  the  nasal 
territory. 

Sometimes,  when  I  meet  a  lady  with  slight  figure,  thin 
features,  and  shadowed  eyes,  I  am  startled  by  the  unvarying 
vividness  and  distinct  outline  of  this  color,  and  murmur  sadly 
— 4  far  gone  in  consumption  —  hectic  —  poor  thing  !  ’  Don’t 
in  your  cynicism  suggest  that  all  I  ascribe  to  the  climate  of 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


347 


Washington  may  be  but  the  effect  of  that  French  abomina¬ 
tion,  called  rouge.  You  cannot  explain  away  the  pheno¬ 
menon  in  that  manner  :  but  for  a  moment  granting  that  the 
daughters  of  the  Puritans  could  so  be- Jezebel  themselves, 
they  would  surely  have  taste  enough  to  put  it  on  more  deli¬ 
cately  and  artistically.  Even  your  irreverence  for  the  elite 
of  the  Capital  city  could  not  go  so  far  as  to  suppose  it  possi¬ 
ble  that  matrons,  whose  failing  eyesight  prevented  them  from 
seeing  what  a  daub  they  were  making  of  it,  would  indulge  in 
rouging!  No;  if  we  may  no  longer  reverence  the  gray 
hairs  of  age,  because  4  they  are  not,’  let  us  at  least  refiain 

from  smiting  it  on  the  cheek. 

Again,  1  repeat,  all  must  be  referred  to  the  climate  ;  and 
if  some  are  afflicted  with  too  much  of  a  good  thing,  it  is  their 
misfortune,  not  their  fault  —  the  climate  overdoes  the  matter. 
It  is  strange,  however,  that  it  has  no  effect  on  my  complex¬ 
ion.  I  look  in  vain  to  see  the  red  light  breaking  through  the 
pale,  Spanish-brown  of  my  cheek.  But  perhaps  I  have  not 
been  here  long  enough  for  such  good  fortune. 

Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXIV. 

Washington,  January  27,  1851. 

In  the  Senate,  Mr.  Seward  has  lately  made  a  fine  speech 
on  the  claims  of  American  merchants  for  indemnities  for 
French  spoliations.  Like  all  the  preceding  efforts  of  this 
able  Senator,  this  is  characterized  by  calm  thought,  clear 
statement,  just  sentiments,  and  a  careful  finish  in  every 

part. 

On  Wednesday,  there  was,  as  you  have  doubtless  seen,  a 
spicy  debate  on  Mr.  Clay’s  resolution  on  the  African  slave 
trade.  You  have  been  a  little  startled,  perhaps,  at  the 
strange  tack  which  Mr.  Hale  took  in  order  to  checkmate  Ins 
distinguished  opponent,  by  bringing  forward,  if  not  indors- 


348 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


ing,  the  opinion  of  Governor  Hammond  —  that  the  horrors 
and  evils  of  the  slave  trade  would  be  reduced  by  throwing  it 
open  and  making  it  like  any  other  branch  of  lawful  com¬ 
merce.  This  bold  skirmisher  made,  as  usual,  a  dashing 
foray  into  the  forbidden  and  jealously  guarded  territory  of 
*  the  institution  ’  —  which  called  out  its  feudal  defenders,  and 
we  had  quite  a  scene  of  it.  Mr.  Clay  grew  stern,  autocrat¬ 
ical,  and  sarcastic  ;  while  Mr.  Foote  shot  pip  from  his  seat 
every  five  minutes,  to  make  a  brief  explanation  or  defence, 
or  to  raise  some  point  of  order.  It  is  amusing  to  witness  the 
sudden  spasms  of  propriety  to  which  this  bold  and  fiery 
statesman  is  subject.  When  certain  Senators  have  the  floor, 
he  manifests  a  nice  and  jealous  regard  for  parliamentary 
etiquette  and  decorum,  and  an  absolute  horror  of  disrespect¬ 
ful  allusions  and  irrelevant  speech.  With  a  naive  uncon¬ 
sciousness  of  his  own  lawlessness  and  manifold  transgressions 
in  a  parliamentary  way,  he  sometimes  indignantly  calls  to 
order  a  speaker  who  is  proceeding  in  a  perfectly  orderly 
manner,  reproves  the  Chair  for  neglect  ,  of  duty,  and  seems 
to  consider  the  quiet  and  solemn  Senate  itself  a  scene  of 
misrule  and  dire  disorder.  At  such  times  his  hallucination 
reminds  me  of  the  strange  state  in  which  Davy  Copperfield 
found  himself  on  the  night  of  his  first  dissipation.  You 
recollect  that,  after  dinner,  wine,  and  cigars,  Steerforth, 
Grainger  and  Markham  took  him  to  the  theatre.  He  says : 

4  There  was  a  great  stage,  looking  very  clean  and  smooth 
after  the  streets  ;  and  there  were  people  upon  it,  talking 
about  something  or  other  ;  but  not  at  all  intelligibly.  There 
was  an  abundance  of  bright  lights,  and  there  was  music,  and 
there  were  ladies  in  the  boxes,  and  I  don’t  know  what  more. 
The  whole  building  looked  to  me  as  if  it  were  learning  to 
swim  ;  it  conducted  itself  in  such  an  unaccountable  manner, 
when  I  tried  to  steady  it .’ 

What  will  Mr.  Clay  do  for  a  target  for  his  wit,  when  Mr. 
Hale  shall  have  left  the  Senate  ?  Toward  whom  can  Mr. 
Foote  make  such  frequent  displays  of  his  respect  for  order 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


349 


and  his  devotion  to  the  Union  ?  Will  not  a  portion,  at  least, 
of  the  4  occupation  ’  of  both  Othello  and  his  orderly  sergeant 
then  be  gone  ?  And,  what  is  of  more  consequence,  what 
will  the  Free-Soil  party  do  without  him,  who  so  long  and  so 
fearlessly  has  carried  on  a  guerilla  warfare  in  defence  of 
their  principles  ? 

The  levee  at  the  President’s  on  Friday  evening  was 
unusually  agreeable.  We  there  met  many  of  our  fiiends, 
and  the  time  passed  very  pleasantly. 

Among  the  celebrities  present  was  Jagiello,  attracting  the 
attention  even  of  strangers  by  the  dark,  peculiar  type  of  her 
beauty,  the  elastic  grace  of  her  movement,  and  the  vivacity 
of  her  manner.  I  am  so  fortunate  as  to  see  much  of  this 
brave  and  earnest  woman,  who  has  done  for  freedom  what 
she  best  could  in  the  way  best  known  to  her.  Jagiello  has 
a  large  and  true  nature,  which  opens  upon  one  more  and 
more.  Her  impulses  are  all  noble,  and  her  intuitions  as 
clear  and  direct  as  the  sunlight.  Her  intense  love  of  freedom 
is  not  an  enthusiasm,  but  an  inherent  quality  of  her  being 
not  a  brand  kindled  at  the  fires  of  revolution,  but  a  central 
flame.  She  is  eminently  a  real  person,  one  who  has  her  de¬ 
cided,  individual  opinions  on  the  great  questions  of  the  time. 
In  expression  she  is  strong  and  fearless,  but  never  brusque 
or  ungentle. 

Speaking  of  Jagiello,  reminds  me  of  the  bill  for  the  relief 
of  the  heirs  of  Kosciusko,  or  rather,  I  believe,  it  is  a  general 
bill  of  venue  for  the  District  of  Columbia,  from  which  they 
look  for  advantage.  As  long  ago  as  1819,  suits  were  com¬ 
menced  for  the  recovery  of  certain  funds,  which  General 
Kosciusko  brought  from  Poland  and  lodged  in  this  country. 
Becoming  convinced  that  certain  powerful  influences  would 
prevent  their  obtaining  justice  in  the  court  for  the  District  of 
Columbia,  the  heirs,  through  their  attorney,  Major  Tochman, 
made  application  to  Congress,  praying  for  the  passage  of  an 
act  authorizing  the  removal  of  the  case  to  the  United  States 
Court  for  the  District  of  Maryland.  This  was  in  1847,  and 
30 


350 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


the  petition  has  not  yet  been  granted  ;  but  the  general  bill  of 
which  I  have  spoken  passed  the  Senate  last  session,  and 
went  to  the  House,  where  it  was  made  a  special  bill,  and 
returned  to  the  Senate.  It  is  now  before  the  Judiciary 
Committee  of  that  body,  which  proposes  to  make  it  again  a 
general  bill.  This  is  supposed  to  be  a  device  for  defeating 
the  bill,  which  is  strongly  opposed^by  the. outside  influences 
of  persons  interested  in  withholding  the  funds,  and  by  the 
Russian  Minister.  What  influence  the  envoy  of  an  autocrat 
can  bring  to  bear  on  sturdy  republicans  is  certainly  a  mys¬ 
tery.  M.  Bodisco  gives  fine  dinners  —  but  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there. 

The  heirs  of  Kosciusko  ask  our  Government  for  no  gift ; 
they  merely  demand  the  payment  of  a  just  debt,  and  ask  the 
aid  of  Congress  in  obtaining  simple  justice.  This  is  certainly 
the  last  claim  which  should  be  disallowed,  and  these  the  last 
suitors  to  be  treated  cavalierly,  ungenerously,  and  unjustly. 
Our  Government  may  never  hope  to  discharge  the  debt  of 
gratitude  which  the  country  owes  to  the  heroic  Pole,  but 
here  is  an  opportunity  for  testifying  some  sense  of  the  eternal 
obligation.  But  perhaps  our  patriots  believe  that  all  such 
debts  are  being  honorably  paid  off  by  annual  instalments  of 
4th  of  July  glorifications. 

Such  a  case  as  this  but  proves,  what  before  has  been 
strongly  suspected,  that  the  patriotism  of  most  politicians  is 
a  sad  sham.  You  hear  it  in  anniversary  orations,  in  after- 
dinner  speeches  and  Union  addresses  ;  but  when  you  would 
touch  the  pure,  grateful,  disinterested,  patriotic  sense  — 
where  is  it  ?  That  politicians  speak  well  of  the  bridge 
which  carries  them  over,  bestow  eloquent  praise  on  the 
country  in  which  and  by  which  they  live,  is  very  true. 
They  speak  advisedly  and  sincerely  no  doubt ;  but  perhaps 
such  patriotism  may  be  of  as  questionable  a  quality  as  the 
pious  and  appreciating  reverence  for  his  pastor  of  a  certain 
New  Zealand  chief.  The  story  goes,  that  a  young  mission¬ 
ary  landed  at  his  island,  to  succeed  a  sacred  teacher  de- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


351 


ceased  some  time  before.  At  an  interview  with  the  chief, 
the  young  minister  asked  :  — 

4  Did  you  know  my  departed  brother  ?  ’ 

‘  Oh,  yes  !  I  was  deacon  in  his  church.’ 

1  Ah,  then,  you  knew  him  well ;  and  was  he  not  a  good 
and  tender-hearted  man  ?  ’ 

4  Yes,’  replied  the  pious  deacon,  with  much  gusto,  4  he 

very  good  and  very  tender.  I  eat  a  piece  of  him  !  ’ 

Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXV. 

Washington,  February  3d,  1851. 

Dear  W _ :  The  week  past  has  been  one  of  very  little 

interest  or  incident  in  the  political  or  social  world  of  Wash¬ 
ington. 

In  the  Senate,  California  land  titles  and  private  land 
claims  have  occupied  most  of  the  time.  Mr.  Benton  and 
Mr.  Berrien  have  been  extensively  heard  from  on  these 
questions.  I  always  listen  with  interest  to  Colonel  Benton, 
not  for  the  reason  that  I  lately  heard  a  lady  give,  that  he  is 
so  delightfully  personal  in  his  remarks’  —  lor  this,  though 
true  of  him,  and  sometimes  on  a  dull  day  productive  of  a 
pleasant  little  excitement,  is  by  no  means  a  peculiaiity,  01  a 
distinction  in  the  Senate.  But  for  his  strong,  bold,  stiaight- 
forward  way  of  speaking,  the  sledge-hammer  style  of  his 
argument,  the  merciless  cut  and  thrust  of  his  invective,  one 
can  but  pay  him  a  sort  of  fearful  homage.  His  wit  is  not 
the  harmless  phosphorescent  light  which  plays  incessantly 
along  the  course  of  elegant  and  graceful  oiatory ,  it  is 
rather  like  the  quick,  sharp  flash  which  the  hoofs  of  a  fierce 
and  powerful  horse  strike  from  a  flinty  path  at  night. 

On  Friday  morning,  there  was  a  brief,  but  very  inteiesting 
discussion  on  the  Amistad  claim,  in  which  Chase,  Clay, 
and  Hale,  took  part.  Mr.  Chase  spoke  as  usual,  with  much 


352 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


clearness  and  force.  He  is  one  of  the  most  manly  and 
truly  dignified  members  of  the  Senate.  He  proclaims  his 
peculiar  principles,  unpopular  as  they  are  with  a  majority  of 
that  body,  equally  without  fear  and  without  bravado.  He  has 
independence  without  obstinacy,  sincerity  without  brusque¬ 
ness,  and  morality  without  cant.  In  the  beginning  of  the 
debate,  Mr.  Clay  made  an  attack  upon  Mr.  Hale,  giving  a 
sharper  extra  effect  to  his  remarks  by  pointing  his  long,  re¬ 
buking  finger  at  that  good-humored  Senator.  Mr.  Hale  could 
not  have  been  advised  of  this  fierce  onslaught;  yet  he  defend¬ 
ed  himself,  or  rather  returned  the  sudden  blow,  with  a  quick¬ 
ness,  a  boldness,  and  a  severity  absolutely  startling.  He 
turned  the  tables  at  once  —  4  carried  the  war  into  Africa’  — 
not  by  attacking  the  Colonization  scheme,  but  by  charging 
on  the  Compromise.  Mr.  Hale  may  not  always  come  forth 
fully  prepared  to  meet  his  adversaries  with  some  ponderous 
argument,  or  some  cutting  sarcasm,  long  sharpened  and 
polished  for  the  occasion,  but  he  is  always  ready  to  seize  at 
once  on  whatever  weapons  lie  nearest  his  strong  hand. 
There  is  a  story  of  a  Saracen  chief,  who,  being  suddenly 
called  to  battle,  while  the  smith  was  yet  welding  his  cimetar, 
caught  it  from  the  anvil,  and  dashed  up  the  mountain  side, 
letting  the  winds  temper  it  as  he  l'ode.  So  this  bold  debater 
snatches  in  haste  the  arms  of  his  argument,  or  wit,  and  if 
the  winds  of  the  occasion  cool  and  harden  the  blade,  well 
and  good  —  if,  not,  he  sometimes  does  terrible  execution 
with  the  hot,  untempered  steel. 

This  interesting  discussion  was  brought  to  an  untimely 
end  by  the  President’s  calling  the  New  Hampshire  Senator 
to  order,  though  he  was  only  replying  to  the  personal 
remarks  which  his  distinguished  opponent  had  made  sans  re¬ 
buke  and  sans  interruption.  But  Free-Soilers  are  evidently 
not  among  the  men  whom  ‘the  King  delighteth  to  honor.’ 

In  the  House,  the  Mint  bill  has  been  under  discussion. 
Mr.  Chandler,  of  Philadelphia,  a  speaker  who  always  com¬ 
mands  a  respectful  and  pleased  attention,  has  spoken  very 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


353 


forcibly  against  the  establishment  of  a  mint  in  New  York. 
The  New  York  delegation  are,  as  might  be  supposed, 
earnestly  in  favor  of  it  —  so  we  had  quite  a  spicy  debate  on 
the  question.  Were  I  not  conscientiously  opposed  to  puns, 
I  should  say  that  the  oratory  of  some  of  the  speakers  was 
like  a  weak  julep,  with  the  aqueous  element  predominating, 
and  with  more  mint  than  spirit. 

On  Wednesday,  Mr.  Julian  of  Indiana  made  a  noble 
speech  on  the  Homestead  bill.  This  was  a  strong,  fearless, 
and  eloquent  expression  of  a  liberty-loving  and  philanthropic 
spirit.  It  is  lying  before  me  now,  I  have  just  been  read¬ 
ing  some  of  its  finest  passages  ;  and,  brief  and  unstudied 
as  it  is,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  a  speech  for  one  day,  or 
for  one  Congressional  session.  It  seems  nerved  with  the 
strength  of  a  great  purpose,  veined  with  a  vital  truth,  a 
moral  life-blood  beating  through  it  warm  and  generous. 
It  is  something  that  must  live  and  work  yet  many  days. 

Social  life  for  the  past  week  has  rolled  on  in  the  usual 
routine  —  receptions,  levees,  parties  —  parties,  levees,  re¬ 
ceptions.  There  are  many,  alas !  who  are  utterly  involved 
in  this  fashionable  whirlpool  —  swept  away  by  this  hurri¬ 
cane-life.  Poor  creatures  !  Yet  there  is  nothing  like  getting 
used  to  such  things.  I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  some  rather 
liked  it  than  otherwise  —  if,  like  Holmes’s  Treadmill  hero, 
they  should  pronounce  it  4  pretty  sport,’  and,  even  after  their 
release,  feel  disposed  to  return,  and  4  have  a  round  or  two 
for  fun .’ 

*  Mr.  Dempster  has  been  giving  his  4  Ballad  Entertainments  ’ 
here  to  admiring  audiences.  No  one  sings  more  directly  to 
the  heart,  or  can  more  readily  sound  its  depths  of  emotion, 
than  this  delightful  vocalist.  His  clear,  round  notes  drop 
into  it,  one  by  one,  like  shining  pebbles,  till  it  overflows  in 
tears,  or  sparkles  up  and  dances  in  mirth.  His  humor  and 
pathos  are  alike  irresistible  ;  he  gives  strong  voice  to  plain 
manly  thought,  and  sweet  voice  to  simple  humble  loves  ; 
he  makes  the  spirit  of  home-life  vocal ;  he  is  truly  a  singer 

30* 


354 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


for  the  people,  one  they  do  well  to  honor,  for  he  has  faith¬ 
fully  done  his  part  towards  bringing  about,  for  their  refine¬ 
ment  and  elevation,  an  equality  in  the  most  refined  of  all 
pleasures  —  the  democracy  of  art. 

We  have  also  enjoyed  a  real  treat  in  attending  Mr.  Van- 
denhoff’s  1  Evenings  with  Sheridan.’  We  went  to  these 
with  high  expectations,  which  were  more  than  satisfied. 
Mr.  Vandenhoff  is  an  admirable  reader,  as  well  as  an  actor 
of  fine  genius,  and  a  gentleman  of  most  elegant  appeal ance. 
The  readings  were  every  evening  preceded  by  a  sketch  of 
the  life,  and  criticisms  on  the  genius,  of  Sheridan;  and 
this  was  by  no  means  the  least  interesting  part  of  the  enter¬ 
tainment.  These  introductions  were  most  happily  conceived 
and  brilliantly  written.  It  is  surely  high  praise  to  say,  what 
all  who  heard  them  must  acknowledge,  that  these  clever, 
witty,  dashing,  yet  most  appreciating  remarks,  weie  a  fitiing 
and  a  pleasing  prelude  to  the  incomparable  comedies  of 
Sheridan. 

Mr.  Yandenhoff’s  personations  are  very  fine ;  he  flings 
himself  body  and  soul  into  the  characters  he  represents.  I 
have  heard  voices  of  greater  compass  and  variety  of  tone 
than  his,  but  I  think  I  never  saw  a  face  more  instantaneously 
obedient  to  every  change  of  thought  or  feeling.  When  all 
is  so  good,  it  were  difficult  to  designate  a  best ;  but  I  was 
especially  pleased  with  his  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  Mis. 
Malaprop,  Hob  Acres,  Joseph  Surface,  Sir  Petei  Teazle,  and 
Sir  Fretful  Plagiary.  His  male  characters  are  better  than 
his  female,  though  Mrs.  Candor  is  done  to  life,  and  Lady 
Teazle  is  by  him  better  given  us  than  by  many  to  the  kirtle 
born.  In  the  screen-scene,  he  was  indeed  admirable  —  the 
whole  of  this  incomparably  ridiculous  denouement  passed 
before  us  more  than  ever  irresistible  in  its  comic  contretemps 
and  overwhelming  surprises. 

Ah,  that  screen-scene,  how  significant  and  suggestive  it 
seemed  to  me,  seeing  it  where  I  then  saw  it.  Thinks  I  to 
myself,  there  is  many  a  political  Joseph  Surface,  who,  by 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


355 


the  utterance  of  4  noble  sentiments,’  passes  for  a  prodigy  of 
patriotic  virtue  with  our  venerable,  universal  relative,  Uncle 
Samuel,  and  who  flatters  and  cajoles  him  until,  like  poor  Sir 
Peter,  he  unconsciously  becomes  a  delighted  party  to  his  own 
dishonor.  I  thought,  also,  that  there  was  a  principle  which, 
in  some  respects,  might  stand  for  the  Charles  Surface  of  this 
political  comedy  —  one  generally  esteemed  a  sad  scamp 
suspected  and  avoided  by  the  severely  moral  and  the  pro¬ 
foundly  respectable,  but  who  may  finally  throw  down  the 
screen  and  reveal  the  whole  plot,  to  the  total  discomfiture  of 
smooth  hypocrisy  and  sentimental  rascality. 

Rev.  James  Freeman  Clarke  has  been  preaching  at  the 
Unitarian  Church  in  this  city  for  some  weeks  past.  He 
leaves  for  the  West  to-day,  much  to  the  regret  of  all  those 
who  have  been  so  privileged  as  to  hear  him.  Mr.  Clarke  is 
a  true  preacher  of  Christ’s  gospel  in  its  purity  and  simplicity 
—  not  alone  of  the  peculiar  doctrines  of  his  own  religious 
sect.  I  have  never  yet  heard  what  could  be  called  a 
doctrinal  sermon  from  his  lips.  Though  of  a  decidedly 
poetical  mind,  he  is  practical,  earnest,  and  direct  in  his 
teachings,  and  appeals  more  to  our  conscience  and  reason 
than  to  our  imagination.  He  does  not  soar  away  out  of  our 
sight  into  the  clouds  and  mists  of  changing  theory  and 
floating  speculation ;  nor  set  us  to  soaring  (an  unnatural 
exercise  for  unfeathered  flesh  and  blood,  say  what  they  will,) 
in  the  rarefied  region  of  transcendental  philosophy,  through 
long  wearisome  stretches  of  cold,  blue  air.  He  rather  walks 
beside  us,  through  the  common  ways  of  life,  cheering  us 
with  his  pleasant,  inspiring  converse.  He  addresses  himself 
to  our  every-day  wants,  and  reminds  us  of  our  every-day 
duties  ;  he  does  not  point  us  to  some  far-off,  possible  good, 
some  crown  of  triumph,  on  the  heights  of  life  which  the 
struggling  soul  may  at  last  grasp  — 4  some  unimagined  isle 
in  the  far  seas,’  where  it  may  at  length  find  rest ;  but  tells  us 
that  the  good,  the  glory,  and  the  repose,  lie  in  our  own 
breasts,  in  our  daily  lives,  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  the 


356 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


simplest  duties  which  lie  before  us,  in  obedience  to  the 
first  law  of  all  true  beneficent  life,  the  simple  law  of  love  — 
in  our  care  to  keep  bright  before  earth  and  heaven  that 
divine  link  that  binds  us,  in  our  mortality,  to  God  and  his 
eternity.  Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXVI. 

Washington,  1’ebruary  10th,  1851. 

Dear  W - :  I  have  sat  down  to  write  to  you  about  — 

nothing  in  particular.  I  hoped  when  I  last  wrote  you  that 
I  would  have  a  thing  or  two  to  tell  by  this  time.  But  I  am 
tired  of  wailing  for  Washington-life  to  turn  up  something  for 
my  benefit  or  divertisement.  4  It’s  no  use’ — nonsense  ot 
the  aimless  and  pointless  kind  is  all  that  is  left  for  me.  But 
you,  I  know,  will  have  charity  to  believe  that  I  would  be 
wise  or  witty,  had  I  matter  for  wisdom  or  wit.  Vou  must 
lay  the  blame  on  Congress,  who  will  not  get  up  any  farces, 
or  bait  any  bears  for  us  poor,  ennuied  letter-writers. 

It  is  a  blue  day  without  —  I  speak  figuratively,  for  no 
small  patch  of  blue  can  be  seen  in  the  sky  above.  The 
weather,  of  late  so  bright  and  genial,  is  dull  and  duzzling, 
and  all  nature  seems  to  have  gone  into  the  sulks.  The  hand- 
organ  has  made  its  appearance,  as  usual,  under  my  window, 
and  dispensed  its  music  for  the  million,  from  psalm-tunes  to 
polkas.  It  somehow  sounds  hoarse  and  wheezy,  as  though 
it  had  taken  cold.  But  perhaps  a  sort  of  instrumental  asthma 
is  a  chronic  malady  with  it  —  an  organic  disease. 

I  had  trifled  thus  far,  when  some  friends  called  on  me  to 
accompany  them  to  the  Supreme  Court,  where  it  was  under¬ 
stood  Mr.  Webster  was  to  speak.  For  the  first  half  hour 
after  our  arrival,  we  listened  to  Mr.  George  Wood,  of  New 
York,  of  ‘Silver-Grey’  notoriety— then  Mr.  Webster  took 
the  floor,  in  reply.  I  understood  nothing  of  the  merits  of 
the  case  —  the  speech  seemed  made  up  of  legalities  and 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


357 


technicalities,  and  I  could  do  little  else  than  look  at  the 
speaker.  It  is  much  to  see  Mr.  Webster  —  there  is  a  Titanic 
grandeur  about  him  still  —  though  now  his  genius  seems 
but  the  aimless  force  of  a  great  star,  fallen  from  its  first  high 
place,  to  wander  pathless  and  dimmed. 

Mr.  Webster  had  in  his  manner  far  more  of  life  and 
earnestness  than  Mr.  Wood,  and  yet,  to  the  uninitiated,  was 
most  solemnly  dull.  There  is  an  awful  dignity  about  that 
Supreme  Court  room  which  oppresses  one.  If  those  dread¬ 
ful  Judges  wore  wigs,  it  would  be  quite  too  much  to  bear  ; 
such  a  formal,  classical,  and  etiquettical  place  as  it  is.  I 
noticed  that  Mr.  Webster,  after  quoting  a  phrase  — 4  the 
ancient  ways  of  the  law  ’  —  hastened  to  translate  it  into 
antiqucis  vias  legis ,  as  though  he  had  been  guilty  of  an 
indecorum. 

The  Judges  are  an  imposing  and  dignified  looking  set 
of  men.  Judge  McLean,  of  Ohio,  most  impressed  me  by 
his  manly  and  noble  appearance.  Judge  Woodbury  has  a 
fine  face,  as  also  has  Judge  Nelson,  of  New  York.  Tanev 
is  the  very  ideal  of  a  Chief  Justice  ;  looking  cold,  emo¬ 
tionless,  unsusceptible  ;  a  bundle  of  precedents,  an  epitome 
of  authorities.  It  hardly  seems  that  such  a  man,  from 
whose  life  the  insatiable  sponge  of  the  Law  has  absorbed 
the  natural  juices,  need  to  suffer  decay,  and  be  buried, 
like  other  people,  at  last.  Such  an  existence  is  in  itself 
a  preserving  and  mummy-making  process  ;  and  it  would 
almost  seem  that  he  has  only  to  grow  more  musty  and 
dry,  like  some  old  parchment,  until  Death  rolls  him  up, 
ties  him  with  red  tape,  and  lays  him  away  in  some  dusty 
pigeon-hole. 

The'  Court-room  was  crowded  with  the  friends  of  Mr. 
Webster,  and  with  strangers,  many  of  whom  were  listening 
to  him  for  the  first  time.  Lieutenant  Jagiello  was  there, 
and  it  was  amusing  to  watch  the  attentive  expression  of  her 
earnest  face.  She  understood  nothing  —  though  there  we 
had  not  so  much  the  advantage  of  her  as  she  supposed. 


358 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


She  regarded  Mr.  Webster  as  the  friend  of  the  Hungarians, 
and  had  faith  to  believe  that  his  words  were  wise  and 
gracious. 

In  the  Library,  at  the  Capitol,  I  had  the  good  fortune,  a 
day  or  two  since,  to  be  presented  to  Mr.  Goodrich,  the  leal, 
live  Peter  Parley.  I  had  so  contounded  him  with  the 
venerable  and  uncle-ish  character  he  has  so  successfully 
and  delightfully  assumed,  that  I  mnst  own  to  being  some¬ 
what  taken  aback  at  finding  him  a  slightly  made,  gen¬ 
tlemanly  person,  far  too  young  for  the  gouty  and  garrulous 
Peter.  I  was  much  gratified  at  meeting  this  writer,  as  I 
regard  him  as  one  of  the  truest  benefactors  of  the  age.  Iso 
writer  has  ever  ministered  more,  if  as  much,  to  the  pleasuie 
and  instruction  of  children,  and  a  generation  are  growing 
up  with  a  grateful  love  of  him  in  their  hearts.  Could  the 
world  have  given  him  a  more  beautiful  and  soul-satisfying 
fame  ? 

The  high  privilege,  the  honor  of  writing  for  children,  is 
but  little  understood.  Is  it  not  a  beautiful  thing  to  call  out 
the  first  bloom,  to  inhale  the  morning  fragrance  of  the 
immortal  soul-flower  ?  Is  it  not  a  great  thing  to  trace  the 
first  words  on  the  soft,  white  tablets  of  the  mind,  where  they 
will  harden  and  remain  forever  ?  Oh,  those  earliest  teach¬ 
ings,  how  the  soul  treasures  them,  and  holds  them  deal  and 
sacred  through  all  the  changes  and  labors,  distiacting  caies, 
and  more  distracting  pleasures  of  life.  The  mind  cannot 
grow  proud  and  strong  enough  to  expel  them,  nor  can  the 
heart  harden  and  contract  till  it  crushes  them.  I  have  heard, 
somewhere,  the  story  of  a  faithful  steward  of  a  banished 
lord,  who  cut  into  a  young  tree  on  the  old  estate,  and  hid 
under  the  bark  some  small,  but  precious  jewels  belonging  to 
his  master.  Years  went  by,  and  the  young  exile  returned, 
an  old  man.  The  steward  was  gone,  but  his  lord  knew  well 
the  secret  of  his  deposit.  Where  the  young  tree  stood,  now 
towered  a  thrifty  oak,  with  a  bark  hardened  and  roughened 
by  time ;  but  well  it  had  kept  its  trust  and  its  treasures, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


359 


though  the  tough  wood  had  closed  over  them,  and  no  eye 
could  guess  their  hiding-place.  The  tree  was  felled,  and  in 
its  very  heart  the  gems  were  found,  not  a  point  broken, 
not  a  ray  wasted,  they  flashed  up  to  the  light  the  old  bright¬ 
ness,  and  made  glad  the  heart  of  the  master. 

Ever  so  safe  an  investment  is  knowledge  in  the  tender 
mind  of  a  child  —  truth  there  lodged  a  life-long  deposit. 
Though  that  mind  may  tower  and  expand,  and  put  on  rough 
defences  against  the  world,  it  still  joys  in  its  little  unsus¬ 
pected  jewels  ;  and  that  heart  but  holds  them  closer  and 
closer,  with  its  strengthening  fibres,  till  the  hour  when  the 
Master  comes  to  look  for  them. 

The  fashionable  world  is  on  the  qui  vive  just  now  with  a 
coming  event  extraordinary,  in  the  shape  of  a  grand  fancy 
ball,  to  be  given  to-night,  by  the  elegant  lady  of  a  member 
from  New  York.  I  think  of  going  as  ‘  The  Uninvited 
Guest’ — some  awkward  country  cousin,  in  green  gingham 
—  some  maiden  aunt  with  her  knitting-work,  or  a  French 
milliner  with  a  long  bill.  For  a  full  account  of  the  sensation 
I  shall  create,  see  New  York  Herald. 

Adieu. 


LETTER  XXXVII. 

Washington,  February  15,  1851. 

Dear  W - :  Pardon  me  for  giving  another  dull  morning 

to  you,  and  let  pleasant  old  memories  throw  a  little  sunshine 
into  my  chamber  and  on  to  my  page,  now  that  Nature,  but 
yesterday  all  smiles,  is  weeping  and  frowning  like  a  pas¬ 
sionate,  capricious  girl — r  very  unbecoming  conduct  in  a  lady 
of  her  years,  I  must  say. 

‘  It  rains,  and.  rains,  and  is  never  weary  ’  —  truly  a  day 
after  a  cabman’s  own  heart.  By  the  way,  one  cannot  be 


360 


greenwood  leaves. 


long  in  Washington  without  remarking  that  it  absolutely 

swarms  with  hacks  of  all  sorts. 

The  levee  at  the  President’s  last  night  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  of  the  season.  There  were  many  strangers 
present,  lately  come  to  the  city,  in  large  excursion  parties 
from  Maine  and  Massachusetts ;  and  among  these  was  a  fair 
proportion  of  beauty  and  grace.  I  think  I  have  not  seen  so 
many  handsome  women  at  any  drawing-room  this  winter. 
If  you  have  never  attended  a  levee,  let  me  give  you  a  litt 

idea  of  one. 

After  depositing  hats  and  cloaks  in  the  ante-room,  you 
proceed  to  the  ‘  Blue  Room,’  where  the  Marshal,  or  some 
friend,  presents  you  to  the  President  and  his  family.  After 
exchanging  the  compliments,  you  pass  on  into  the  magnifi¬ 
cent  4  East  Room,’  where  most  of  the  guests  are  assembled, 
forming  a  stream  of  promenaders,  passing  round  and  round 
the  brilliant  hall,  or  pausing  in  groups  to  laugh  and  chat. 

The  President  plays  the  role  of  the  host  in  an  admirable 
manner.  He  is  urbane  and  cordial  with  no  air  of  effort  or 
condescension.  Mrs.  and  Miss  Fillmore  perform  their  parts 
with  equal  grace  and  readiness.  The  President’s  4  one  fail 
daughter  ’  impresses  one  more  and  more  as  an  intelligent, 

natural,  modest,  and  fresh-heaited  gnl. 

She  dresses  with  peculiar  simplicity  and  good  taste,  and 
always  meets  one  with  a  sunny,  unforced  smile,  and  words 
of  pleasant  greeting. 

Passing  into  the  East  Room,  we  first  remarked  the 
towering  forms  of  Scott  and  Houston,*  each  with  a  host  of 
admirers  circling  about  him— a  slow  whirlpool  of  broad¬ 
cloth  and  brocade  —  while  Foote  and  Douglass,  and  othei 
distinguished  Senators  created  considerable  eddies  in  the 
crowd  as  they  passed  along.  It  is  curious  to  observe  now 
lamb-like  the  fiercest  lion  of  war  becomes  in  the  drawing¬ 
room  —  there  he  softens  his  terrible  front,  and  4  roars  you 
gently  an’  it  were  a  nightingale.’  There,  the  hand  used  to 
wield  the  dripping  sword,  trifles  daintily  with  my  lady’s  fan ; 


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361 


there,  the  lips,  wont  to  thunder  out  commands,  or  lighten 
forth  hot  oaths,  wreath  with  gay  smiles  and  let  off  incessantly 
the  harmless  words  of  compliment  and  lively  repartee.  To¬ 
wards  the  close  of  the  evening  I  saw  the  hero  of  Vera  Cruz, 
supporting  on  his  arm  his  youngest  daughter,  a  very  beauti¬ 
ful  girl,  who  reminded  one  of  Tennyson’s  4  Adeline,’ 

‘  With  her  floating  flaxen  hair, 

Her  rosy  cheeks  ancf  full  blue  eye.’ 

The  mate  to  this  fine  picture  was  formed  by  the  gallant 
Colonel  May,  a  superb  figure  of  a  man,  powerful  enough  to 
have  worn  mail  and  wielded  the  battle-axe  at  Agincourt,  and 

Mrs.  C - ,  a  young  widow  from  St.  Louis,  fair  and  stately, 

who  also  reminded  me  of  one  of  Tennyson’s  creations  — 

* 

‘Oh,  sweet,  pale  Margaret, 

Oh,  rare,  pale  Margaret.’ 

But  the  belle  of  the  evening,  decidedly,  was  Mrs.  A - 

of  St.  Louis  ;  a  lady  past  the  first  season,  but  hardly  the  first 
bloom  of  youth ;  one  who  charms  alike  by  her  beauty  and 
courtly  manners,  and  by  the  everywhere  apparent  freshness 
and  kindliness  of  her  heart.  One  would  suppose  that  she 
had  drunk  of  the  fabled  fountain  of  youth  —  was  in  pos¬ 
session  of  the  true  physiological  secret  —  understood  and 
obeyed  that  primal  law  of  nature,  self-preservation. 

4  May  I  make  a  confiscation  of  this  newspaper  ?  ’  said 
Jagiello  to  me,  the  other  day.  If  I  might  make  a  confis¬ 
cation  of  one  of  Willis’s  luscious  words,  I  should  say  that  the 

plumptitude  of  Mrs.  A - -  is  just  at  that  point  of  roundness 

and  ripeness  behind  which  lie  leanness  and  sharp  lines,  and 
beyond  which  you  enter  upon  the  dowager  degree,  wherein 
you  eschew  short  sleeves  and  flounces,  don  black  velvet 
and  turbans,  get  short-breathed  on  mounting  stairs,  drive 
leisurely,  go  seldom  to  the  opera,  attend  only  morning 
Sunday,  take  long  after-dinner  naps,  and  pet 


service  on 


362 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


over-fed  lap-dogs,  sleepy  and  asthmatic.  In  short,  she  is  of 
such  fair  and  just  proportions  that  one  says  with  the  poet 

‘  Yet  though  I  would  not  love  thee  less, 

I  could  not  love  thee  more .’ 

Washington  seems,  indeed,  the  paradise  of  married  and 
middle-aged  women,  and  of  elderly  gentlemen.  Society 
here  seems  much  like  that  of  English  cities,  in  the  respect 
that  its  leaders  are  not  young  flirts  and  dainty  exquisites, 
but  women  of  mature  age  and  worldly  experience,  and 
men  of  dignified  port,  wearing  Solomon’s  sign  of  wisdom, 
or,  at  least,  that  barbarous  substitute  which  deceives  nobody. 
You  look,  in  vain,  through  our  saloons  for  nice,  spectacled, 
gossiping,  tea-drinking,  snuff-taking  old  ladies,  in  brown 
satin  and  muslin  kerchiefs.  You  see  scores  of  fair  forties, 
and  stately  fifties ;  but,  by  some  strange  fatality,  no  woman 
ever  reaches  sixty  in  Washington !  And  a  regular  bond 
fide  old  man,  white-haired  and  feeble,  lifting  his  dim  eyes 
toward  heaven,  like  a  poor,  wearied  traveller,  blinded  and 
beaten  by  storms,  looking  eagerly  through  the  twilight 
toward  the  cheerful  windows  of  his  home;  or  dropping 
them  humbly  toward  the  earth,  as  though  to  become  ac¬ 
quainted  with  the  dust  so  soon  to  cover  him,  murmuring 
Scripture  texts,  and  thinking  of  the  old,  old  times, 

‘  As  he  totters  o’er  the  ground 
With  his  cane.’  — 

Such  an  one  were  here  an  anomaly  —  a  natural  curiosity. 
There  has  been  nothing  of  the  kind  in  either  House  of 
Congress  since  4  The  Old  Man  Eloquent.’ 

To  return  to  our  subject,  the  President’s  levees.  To  my 
plain,  democratic  taste,  they  are  the  pleasantest  parties  or 
(gatherings  in  Washington.  You  have  here  less  form  and 
more  freedom  than  any  where  else.  You  are  always  sure 
to  meet  some  agreeable  people ;  you  can  enjoy  a  pleasant 
tete-a-tete  with  a  friend,  or  have  a  brief  chat  with  an 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


363 


acquaintance.  As  perpetual  motion  is  the  rule,  you  can 
break  off  a  conversation,  and  go  on  with  your  promenading 
at  your  pleasure.  This  is  your  protection  against  bores  ;  for 
Washington,  with  all  its  delectabilities,  has,  I  must  confess,  at 
least  a  limited  assortment  of  those  much-abused,  universally- 
avoided  descendants  of  the  ancient  Augurs.  Have  you  ever, 
in  the  plenitude  of  your  philanthropy,  my  dear  friend,  reflect¬ 
ed  on  the  misery  which  this  numerous  class  of  our  fellow- 
beings  are  called  upon  to  endure  ;  how  they  are  put  upon, 
and  belabored,  and  down-trodden  ?  ’T  is  true  that  they  are 
happily  insensible  to  this  treatment;  but  should  we,  because 
of  our  own  cleverness  and  agreeability,  presume  upon  their 
stupidity  ?  Is  it  magnanimous,  I  ask  ?  A  selfish,  business- 
distracted,  and  pleasure-driving  world  joins  in  a  loud,  uni¬ 
versal  litany  of  —  From  all  button-holding,  one-story-telling 
old  gentleman;  from  all  authors  of  one  book;  from  all 
singers  of  one  song ;  from  all  fanatics  of  one  idea,  deliver 
us !  From  all  makers  of  Buncombe  speeches ;  from  all 
consistent  politicians ;  from  all  Constitution  defenders  ;  from 
all  perambulating  periodical  agents  in  green  spectacles ; 
from  all  lecturers  on  ’isms  and  ’ologies;  from  all  venders 
of  hair-dye  and  corn-plaster,  deliver  us !  From  all  newly- 
married  couples ;  from  all  model  children ;  from  all  young 
officers  in  uniform ;  from  all  flirting,  fan-flourishing  belles ; 
from  all  lisping  dandies  and  travelled  monkeys,  deliver  us ! 
From  all  tract-distributing,  Sunday-school-establishing  old 
ladies ;  from  all  maiden  ladies  with  subscription-papers ; 
from  all  punsters ;  from  all  blues,  deliver  us  ! 

Is  this  fair  and  philanthropic  ?  Ah,  my  friend,  have  not 
this  portion  of  the  race,  many  of  whom  belong  to  our  most 
respectable  circles  and  first  families,  great  cause  of  com¬ 
plaint  ?  May  we  not  fear  that,  at  last,  they  will  rouse  to 
a  sense  of  their  grievances,  and  bring  them  before  the 
people,  by  some  grand  demonstration  ;  some  Bore’s  Rights 
Convention  !  While  this  is  being  held,  will  not  dinner¬ 
parties  and  tea-parties  pass  off  with  uncommon  eclat  and 


364 


greenwood  leaves. 


good  feeling  ?  Legislative  bodies  agreeably  miss  the  heavy 
droning  of  some  honorable  members ;  congregations  louse 
up  under  the  sudden  blaze  of  some  4  new  light,  and  whole 
communities  find  carnal  enjoyment  in  the  interregnum  of 
female  benevolence. 

To  return  to  our  muttons —  meaning  no  disrespect  to  my 
illustrious  subjects.  During  our  evening  at  the  President  s, 
we  had  some  idle  discussion  on  the  chances  and  probabilities 
of  the  Presidential  aspirants  present.  I  could  only  sa;y , 
that  I  hoped  that  of  all  the  number  named  for  the  highest 
office  in  the  gift  of  the  nation,  he  might  succeed  who  had 
struggled  and  intrigued  the  least  for  it.  And  so  it  may  be  ; 
for  the  bold  leaders  who  storm  the  high  places  of  power, 
often  but  touch  the  4  outer  wall,’  and  fall  into  the  ditch  ; 
while  men  in  the  ranks,  who  press  not  on  so  hotly,  finally 
climb  over  them  and  take  the  citadel. 

In  the  House,  Mr.  Ritchie’s  claim  for  relief  for  loss 
sustained  by  Government  printing,  has  been  under  discus¬ 
sion.  I  know  nothing  of  the  merits  of  this,  whether  it  be 
just  or  not ;  but  there  are  those  bold  enough  to  say,  that 
such  claims  are  the  leeches  by  which  our  plethoric  Uncle 
Samuel  is  being  bled  more  than  is  absolutely  needful  for 
his  health  ;  that,  in  fact,  it  does  not  agree  with  him  to  lose 
so  much  blood.  They  say,  also,  that  a  newr  and  a  strictei 
system  of  political  economy  must  supersede  a  system  of 
lavish  expenditure,  bargaining,  and  bribery ;  that  good 
Uncle  Samuel  must  have'  a  new  family  physician,  averse 
to  the  Sangrado  practice  ;  must  have  a  new  coachman,  who 
will  whip  behind,  and  rid  the  old  family  coach  of  some  of 
its  useless  hangers-on ;  and  that  the  ship  of  State  must  be 
laid  up  in  dry  dock,  and  cleared  of  her  barnacles. 

But  cui  liono  !  is  our  hopeless  ejaculation  to  all  plans  ot 
political  reform  which  touch  not  the  great  original  source 
of  our  political  evils —  Slavery  !  That  is  the  ‘Death  in  the 
pot;’  the  rail  thrown  across  the  track  of  progress;  the 
mill-stone  about  the  neck  of  our  Republicanism  ;  the  weasel 
under  the  wing  of  our  National  Eagle.  Adieu. 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


365 


LETTER  XXXVIII. 

Washington,  February  24,  1851. 

Dear  W - :  You  will  have  seen  what  a  fearful  ex¬ 

citement  the  Boston  fugitive  slave  rescue  has  produced  in 
Washington.  It  was  certainly  very  unkind,  not  to  say 
immoral  conduct,  in  the  colored  people  to  thus  forcibly 
liberate  their  brother  from  bondage,  at  the  risk  of  throwing 
our  ‘  potent,  grave,  and  reverend  seigniors  ’  into  such  a  fret 
and  fermentation.  Such  alarm  and  choler  are  not  healthy 
for  men  at  their  time  of  life.  Such  news  and  a  great  dinner 
are  too  much  to  digest  at  once:  and  what  is  a  black  fellow’s 
liberty  to  a  white  statesman’s  digestion  ? 

‘Callout  the  millingtary!’  cry  the  political  Noah  Clay- 
poles,  and  the  obliging  Government  obeys.  The  whole 
movement  reminds  one  of  the  spirited  opposition  which  that 
eminent  and  strong-minded  dame,  Mrs.  Partington,  made  to 
the  advances  of  the  Atlantic  ocean.  She  stood  her  ground 
stoutly,  she  plied  her  besom  briskly,  but  the  great  uncon¬ 
querable  element  was  ‘  too  much  ’  for  the  worthy  old  lady 
at  last. 

You  were  doubtless  impressed,  on  reading  the  debates  of 
the  21st,  by  the  pious  horror  with  which  the  Senator  from 
Kentucky  regarded  Mr.  Hale’s  somewhat  disrespectful  men¬ 
tion  of  the  President’s  proclamation.  If  l  remember  rightly, 
the  Senator  who  administered  this  stern  reproof,  and  his 
disciples,  were  not  wont  to  speak  of  the  late  President  in  a 
tone  remarkably  reverential.  The  military  services  of  the 
brave  old  General,  his  high  office,  and  the  Roman  justice 
and  frank  simplicity  of  his  character,  were  no  protection 
against  contemptuous  opposition,  sarcasms,  and  ridicule. 
But  now,  one  would  suppose  that  honest  Millard  Fillmore, 
the  son  of  a  sturdy  republican,  in  his  youth,  ‘bound  ’pren¬ 
tice  ’  to  a  clothier,  and  honorably  earning  his  bread  by  the 
labor  of  his  hands,  now  by  accident  our  citizen  President, 
were  the  Great  Mogul  himself,  or  the  mighty  Khan  of  P ar- 


366 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


tary,  or  the  imperial  despot  of  all  the  Russias ;  and  that 
for  a  humble  subject  to  let  drop  a  word  against  his  divine 
rights,  his  wisdom  and  supremacy,  were  to  incur  the  bas¬ 
tinado  and  bow-string,  or  to  catch  a  Tartar,  or  to  get  a 
taste  of  the  knout,  followed  by  a  little  trip  to  Siberia  for  the 
benefit  of  his  health,  where  he  might  make  himself  at  home 
and  see  the  country  for  fifty  years  or  so,  if  the  climate 
agreed  with  him,  and  he  found  it  worth  while  to  live  so 
long. 

A  distinguished  leader  in  the  Senate  recently  very  amus¬ 
ingly,  though  blunderingly,  characterized  his  own  fame  as 
4  that  poor  reputation  which  it  had  been  his  ambition  to 
acquire.’  Surely  this  last  agitation  movement  will  add 
materially  to  more  than  one  reputation  of  that  peculiar 
type. 

On  Saturday,  the  Southern  agitators  had  the  field  to  them¬ 
selves.  No  one  spoke  for  the  North  except  Mr.  Chase,  who 
acquitted  himself  most  faithfully.  Mr.  Downs  in  his  re¬ 
marks  showed  himself  a  strong  advocate  of  the  whole 
system  of  slavery,  as  also  did  another  Southern  Senator, 
whom  I  had  not  before  heard.  In  the  latter  gentleman’s 
speech,  tonsils  or  tongue  refuse  to  co-operate  as  they  should, 
or  there  is  a  sort  of  labial  rebellion  —  in  other  words,  he 
has  not  a  free  and  easy  utterance,  but  rather  suffers  from 
an  impediment  to  the  smooth  and  even  flow  of  talk.  His  is 
oratory  under  difficulties,  and  he  by  that  circumstance  re¬ 
motely  suggests  Demosthenes,  as  he  gesticulated  by  the 
seaside,  with  his  mouth  full  of  pebbles.  In  another  respect, 
he  and  his  compeers,  when  advocating  or  defending  oppres¬ 
sion,  when  threatening  the  North  and  ridiculing  its  senti¬ 
ments,  remind  us  of  Demosthenes.  They  talk  to  the  wind, 
which  ‘  goeth  where  it  listeth  ’  with  a  wild  sweep  and  a 
whistle  of  defiance  ;  to  the  sea,  which  sounds  and  dashes 
on  —  rolls  its  destructive  waves  and  scatters  its  saucy  spray, 
heedless  alike  of  their  rage  and  their  rhetoric. 

The  strangest  of  all  strange  things  is,  that  any  appre- 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


367 


hension  should  be  felt  in  the  North,  at  Southern  threats  of 
disunion.  It  were  like  the  attempt  of  a  crew  to  scuttle  the 
ship  in  mid-ocean ;  the  madness  of  an  aeronaut  who  would 
rip  open  his  balloon  in  mid-heaven ;  or  of  the  samphire- 
gatherer,  who  would  cut  the  rope  which  sustains  him  in  his 
‘  dreadful  trade 1 ;  or  like  the  folly  of  the  inconstant  Turkish 
husband,  the  Moslem  Disunionist,  who,  in  bagging  his  better 
half,  to  dispose  of  her  by  summary  process,  unfortunately 
in  his  haste  stitched  the  sack  to  his  own  loose  trowsers,  and 
hurled  himself  into  the  Bosphorus. 

In  the  course  of  his  remarks,  one  of  the  Southern  speakers 
warned  us  of  the  North  against  encouraging  the  immigration  * 
of  fugitive  slaves,  averring  that  the  presence  and  influence 
of  such  a  degraded  class  would  be  4  demoralizing  ’  to  our 
rising  generation.  The  truth  of  this  statement  I  could 
hardly  deny,  as  the  proofs  seemed  to  stand  out  before  me, 
abundant  and  conclusive. 

But  though  I  am  sometimes  startled  and  revolted  by  the 
utterance  by  Southern  men  of  sentiments  which  seem  to  me 
in  conflict  with  all  the  principles  of  right  and  justice,  I  can 
understand  how  they,  4  to  the  manor  born,’  should  hold  those 
sentiments.  But  I  know  no  words  in  which  to  express  my 
woman’s  scorn  of  those  Northern  renegades,  false  to  free¬ 
dom,  to  their  pledges,  and  constituents,  and  to  their  own 
manhood,  who  prostrate  themselves  with  more  than  Oriental 
obsequiousness  before  the  dominant  power,  and  perform 
4  with  alacrity  ’  the  most  servile  work  of  their  task-masters 
—  their  task-masters,  who  despise  while  they  use  them.  At 
this  ‘awful  crisis,’  when  some  of  the  privileges  of  that 
peculiar  institution,  which  it  seems  our  Government  was 
formed  principally  to  protect,  are  being  questioned  or 
denied,  Northern  politicians  of  this  type  are  running  en 
masse  to  the  rescue  —  propitiating  with  works  of  super¬ 
erogation  —  doing  wonderful  things  in  the  way  of  tumbling 
and  somersaulting,  and  performing  prodigies  of  prostration. 
For  this  patriotic  devotion,  they  look  for  their  reward  with  a 


368 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


simple  faith  which  is  really  edifying.  They  are  not  such 
fools  as  to  hang  themselves  after  their  ‘  disagreeable  duty’ 
of  betrayal,  but  make  political  capital  out  of  it,  and  put 
their  thirty  pieces  of  silver  out  at  interest. 

But  shall  I  not  have  a  little  pleasant  chat  with  you,  before 
I  stop  ?  Let  us  drop  these  disagreeable  subjects ;  they 
only  vex  and  discourage  me,  pour  vinegar  into  my  heart, 
and  squeeze  wormwood  into  my  inkstand. 

We  have  had  some  very  delicious  sunshiny  days  of  late, 
though  the  weather  cannot  be  depended  on,  is  extremely 
variable  and  capricious.  On  Thursday  afternoon  I  had  a 
charming  gallop  with  some  pleasant  friends.  Apolloma 
Jagiello  was  of  the  party,  and  half  wild  with  childlike 
gayety.  She  rides  with  much  freedom,  fearlessness,  and 
'  grace,  and,  with  her  very  picturesque  dress,  looks  finely 
indeed  on  horseback. 

I  enjoyed  the  excursion  keenly,  though  my  horse  pioved 
to  have  more  fire  and  fury  than  is  quite  commendable  in  a 
horse ;  was  ferociously  hard  on  the  bit,  and  had  rather  a 
disagreeable  habit  of  pulling  downward,  as  if  he  were  stoop¬ 
ing  to  tie  up  his  shoe. 

Yesterday,  we  visited  the  Prison  and  the  Infirmary,  both 
of  which  deserve  a  better  notice  than  I  can  give  them  here. 
At  the  former  place,  we  were  most  interested  by  Captains 
Sayres  and  Drayton,  of  the  ‘  PearV  We  found  them  as 
comfortable  and  cheerful  as  we  could  have  expected.  Diay- 
ton  says  that  he  suffers  most  from  the  vile  companionship 
which  he  is  obliged  to  endure. 

The  jailer,  who  is  a  very  gentlemanly  person,  spoke  in 
high  terms  of  those  two  prisoners.  As  I  looked  into  the 
melancholy  faces  of  these  men,  suffering  so  deeply  and 
hopelessly  through  long  years,  for  the  crime  of  helping  their 
oppressed  and  degraded  brothers  to  the  freedom  they  them¬ 
selves  inherited  and  loved,  sharp  was  the  pain  at  my  heait, 
bitter  and  I  fear  impatient  the  cry  of  my  soul  — 1  How  long, 
oh,  Lord  !  how  long?  ’  I  was  glad  to  hear  that  Mr.  Drayton, 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


369 


who  impressed  me  as  a  very  sincere,  earnest  man,  was 
shortly  to  be  removed  to  more  comfortable  quarters.  I  hope 
that  he  may  be  allowed  a  room  to  himself,  for,  with  all  his 
submission  and  faith,  he  can  scarcely  be  otherwise  than 
wretched  where  he  now  is. 

It  was  beautiful  to  witness  Jagiello’s  sympathy  with  these 
unfortunate  men.  She,  simple  girl,  could  see  no  difference 
between  helping  American  slaves  to  obtain  their  freedom, 
and  inciting  Hungarian  peasants  to  revolt  against  Austrian 
tyranny  —  or  rescuing  Polish  exiles,  condemned  to  Siberia. 
Ah,  when  will  she  learn  the  grand  American  creed,  that 
God  is  a  partial  Father,  who  made  of  one  blood  all  the 
nations  of  the  earth  —  save  Ethiopians,  whom  He  created 
in  order  to  unbosom  Himself  of  a  great  curse,  and  to  wreak 
an  eternal  hate  ?  when  will  she  learn  our  fundamental 
Republican  principle,  that  4  all  men  are  created  free  and 
equal  ’  —  except 4  niggers  ?  ’  But  I  fear  her  truthful,  childlike 
mind  will  never  come  up  to  such  heights  of  wisdom. 

‘  Could  no  one  convince  you  that  slavery  is  right  ?  ’  said 
Mrs.  B - to  her  the  other  day. 

4  Not  the  Lord  himself,’  she  answered,  in  a  deep,  firm 
voice,  and  with  one  of  her  clear,  brilliant  glances. 

But  I  must  say,  adieu  ! 


LETTER  XXXIX. 

Washington,  March  3,  1851. 

Dear  W - :  I  must  give  you  but  a  brief  and  hurried 

letter  on  this  last  day  of  the  session.  I  am  to  go  up  to  the 
Capitol  at  an  earlier  hour  than  usual,  and  my  morning  has 
been  sadly  interrupted.  * 

I  am  feeling  somewhat  depressed  to-day,  I  must  confess. 
My  winter  in  Washington  has  Been  one  of  great  enjoyment, 
and  I  have  sincere  regret  in  parting  from  so  many  whose  # 
32 


370 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


society  has  given  me  both  pleasure  and  profit.  During  the 

past  two  months  we  have  been  having  at  Dr.  B - ’s,  on 

Saturday  evenings,  social,  informal  parties  —  Free  Soil 
soirees  —  gatherings  together  of  the  elect  for  counsel,  4  aid, 
and  comfort.’  On  Saturday  night  last,  these  pleasant  re¬ 
unions  came  to  an  end,  amid  general  and  earnest  expressions 
of  regret. 

Among  those  most  faithful  in  attendance  at  these  agree¬ 
able,  but  rather  exclusive  soirees ,  was  Mr.  Root,  of  Ohio, 
who  will  not,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  return  to  Washington  next 
session.  He  has  added  much  to  the  life  and  gayety  of  our 
circle.  A  great  lover  and  provoker  of  laughter,  an  incor¬ 
rigible  wag,  he  is  yet,  as  you  doubtless  well  know,  a  true, 
fearless,  and  earnest  man.  He  has  played  his  part  faith¬ 
fully  since  he  has  been  here,  and  under  circumstances  well 
calculated  to  test  his  temper  and  capacity.  With  all  his 
humor,  mirthfulness,  and  good  nature,  he  is  not  an  antago¬ 
nist  to  be  lightly  estimated,  nor  one  with  whom  his  opponents 
are  particularly  anxious  to  engage.  Though  not  a  fierce 
hand-to-hand  gladiator,  he  is  a  skilful  matador ,  shaking  his 
red  mantle  as  if  in  sport,  but  giving  keen,  quick,  effective 
strokes  under  it. 

Perhaps  the  one  in  our  circle  most  honored  and  beloved 
is  Mr.  Giddings,  of  Ohio.  A  large  and  fearless  spirit  has  in 
him  a  fitting  embodiment.  He  is,  I  think,  the  most  pow¬ 
erfully  built  man  in  the  House  —  tall,  full-chested,  broad- 
shouldered,  a  sort  of  political  Ajax,  full  of  energy  and  en¬ 
durance,  while  his  happy,  genial  countenance  shows  that  the 
generous  feelings  of  his  early  manhood  are  yet  alive  and 
fresh  —  he  is,  thank  Heaven,  good  for  many  years  more  of 
noble  action.  Mr.  Giddings  talks  of  going  to  the  World’s 
Fair.  I  hope  he  will  not  fail  to  forward  himself,  for  we 
could  hardly  send  a  finer  specimen  of  American  manhood. 

Mr.  Durkee,  of  Wisconsin,  is  one  of  the  friends  we  most 
prize.  He  possesses  a  most  liberal  and  benevolent  spirit, 
warqn,  social  feelings,  and  pure,  reformatory  principles.  He 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


371 


has  the  most  abiding,  unfailing,  happy  faith  in  the  speedy 
triumph  of  the  right  —  in  the  speedy  coming  of  that  promised, 
prayed-for,  long-tarrying  4  good  time.’  Why,  he  actually  be¬ 
lieves  in  the  Millennium  !  — that  the  final  redemption  of  the 
human  mind  from  error,  the  human  heart  from  crime,  of 
human  lives  from  wrong  and  suffering,  is  not  a  lying  hope, 
a  divine  mockery;  that  liberty  and  justice  are  not  cold  ab¬ 
stractions,  beautiful  ideals,  but  God’s  own  realities,  the  price¬ 
less  heritage  of  his  children,  whose  rights  He  himself  shall 
vindicate  at  last. 

Mr.  Mann  and  Mr.  Allen,  of  Massachusetts,  Mr.  Julian,  of 
Indiana,  Mr.  Doty,  of  Wisconsin,  Mr.  Wilmot,  of  Pennsyl¬ 
vania,  Mr.  Gott  and  Preston  King,  of  New  York,  have  been 
among  our  most  welcome  visitors  ;  and  a  fine  set  of  honest, 
earnest,  and  sensible  men  they  are,  with  clear  heads  and 
kindly  hearts,  quick  impulses,  but  firm  principles. 

Governor  Cleveland,  of  Connecticut,  frequently  looked  in 
upon  us.  He  is  a  very  agreeable,  but  an  ambitious  man,  I 
fear  ;  for  not  content,  as  many  a  legislator  would  be,  with 
the  reputation  of  being  one  of  the  handsomest  men  in  Con¬ 
gress,  he  aspires  to  win  a  still  higher  fame  by  the  advocacy 
of  sentiments  just  and  noble,  to-day  unpopular,  but  having 
within  themselves  the  germs  of  future  honor.  This  nurtur¬ 
ing  a  young  century  plant  is  not  such  egregious  folly  after 
all.  True,  you  may  never  see  its  blossoming,  but  eyes 
which  caught  their  brightness  from  yours  may  grow  brighter 
as  they  gaze  on  it  in  the  days  to  come. 


March  4,  1851. 

I  left  my  letter  rather  abruptly  yesterday,  and  went  up  to 
the  Capitol.  I  was  so  fortunate  as  to  be  present  in  the 
House  at  the  passage  of  the  resolution  for  the  aid  of  Kossuth. 
It  was  really  beautiful  and  cheering  to  witness  the  ready  and 
almost  unanimous  action  of  our  Representatives  upon  this 
question.  On  the  last  day  of  the  session,  when  overwhelmed 
with  business  of  the  most  pressing  importance,  they  yet 


372 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


turned  aside  in  the  spirit  of  a  chivalrous  fraternity,  to  give 
countenance  and  assistance  to  Hungary’s  unfortunate  patriot 
and  his  brave  associates.  All  honor  to  them  for  their  gen¬ 
erous  impulses  —  their  magnanimity  —  for  their  sympathy 
with  the  fallen  —  for  their  recognition  of  the  universal  bro¬ 
therhood  of  freemen.  I  never  felt  so  proud  of  my  country 
as  at  the  moment  when  that  resolution  passed.  I  turned  an 
exulting  look  upon  the  face  of  an  English  friend  who  stood 
at  my  side,  and  he,  by  his  sympathy,  added  not  a  little  to  the 
patriotic  glorying  which  swelled  my  heart.  But  ‘  pride  must 
have  a  fall’  is  an  old  saying,  and  it  soon  proved  itself  in  a 
most  melancholy  and  mortifying  manner. 

In  the  early  part  of  the  evening  session,  in  the  House, 
there  was,  as  you  will  have  seen,  a  personal  rencounter 
between  Mr.  Stanly  and  Mr.  Clingman,  the  blame  of  which 
would  seem  to  rest  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  latter  gentle¬ 
man.  He  began  an  altercation  with  Mr.  Stanly,  calling  him 
opprobrious  names,  and  followed  them  with  a  blow.  Though 
of  a  passionate  nature,  and  of  a  keen,  sarcastic  temper,  Mr. 
Stanly  is  said  to  have  been  wonderfully  calm  and  forbearing 
in  his  language  toward  his  bitter  and  violent  antagonist.  Of 
course,  there  will  be  a  meeting.  Perhaps,  as  Mr.  Clingman 
threatened,  not  so  bloodless  an  one  as  the  late  affair  between 
Messrs.  Stanly  and  Inge.  Mr.  Stanly  is  one  of  the  most 
fearless,  independent,  and  liberal  of  the  Southern  members, 
beside  being  an  able  and  spirited  speaker,  and. a  finished 
gentleman.  The  country  could  sooner  spare  the  entire 
squad  of  reckless  and  belligerent  legislators,  who  seek  to 
make  of  the  floor  of  Congress  an  arena  for  the  bully,  who, 
wanting  equally  the  controlling  force  of  high  intellect  and 
the  weight  of  moral  principle,  would  settle  the  affairs  of  the 
nation  by  the  pistol,  the  bowie-knife,  or  a  chivalrous  resort 
to  fisticuffs. 

I  deeply  regretted  that  Mr.  Stanly  should  accept  a  chal¬ 
lenge  ;  I  shall  the  more  deeply  regret  his  sending  one.  He 
should  never  more  give  the  weight  of  his  example  to  the 


SELECTIONS  FROM  LETTERS. 


373 


horrible  barbarity,  the  infernality  of  duelling.  He  cannot 
himself,  in  his  own  deepest  heart,  approve  of  the  practice, 
and  I  believe  that  he  is  mistaken,  if  he  thinks  that  public 
opinion,  even  in  the  South,  requires  him  to  prove  his  animal 
courage  by  murdering,  or  being  murdered.  That  a  great 
and  happy  change  of  sentiment  in  regard  to  this  question  is 
taking  place  in  the  Southern  States,  has  been  well  proved  by 
Major  Borland,  one  of  the  present  Senators  from  Arkansas. 
Previous  to  his  election  to  the  Senate,  and  in  the  midst  of  a 
violent  political  excitement,  he  was  grossly  insulted,  and 
called  out  by  a  quarrelsome  opponent.  Having  been,  in 
early  life,  engaged  in  a  duel,  when  he  severely  wounded  his 
antagonist,  he  had  become  convinced  of  the  evil,. sin,  and 
folly  of  the  practice,  and  now  had  the  moral  courage  to 
refuse  a  challenge,  though  forced  upon  him  in  a  most 
insulting  and  irritating  manner.  He  laid  the  matter  before 
the  people  of  his  State  in  a  noble  and  manly  letter,  and  to 
the  honor  of  that  people  be  it  said,  that  the  refusal  of  the 
soldier  to  prove  his  courage  by  fighting  a  duel,  insured, 
instead  of  defeating,  the  election  of  the  Senator.  A  con¬ 
summation  devoutly  to  be  thankful  for  —  not  only  as  the 
triumph  of  a  moral  principle,  but  also  because  it  has  given 
to  the  Senate  a  man  of  fine  ability  and  generous  spirit. 
True  to  the  interests  of  his  section  of  the  country,  and  I 
doubt  not,  to  his  own  convictions,  he  is  not  illiberal,  is  never 
arrogant  in  tone,  unfair,  or  discourteous  in  debate. 

The  Senate  and  House  have  been  in  session  all  night.  In 
my  next,  I  may  attempt  a  sketch  of  legislation  by  gas-light, 
or  by  the  ghastly  light  of  the  early  morning.  Do  pardon 
the  haste  in  which  I  have  written.  I  am  keeping  the  press 
open.  I  have  not  looked  back  over  a  line,  but  have  been 
obliged  to  dash  off  a  page  at  a  time  and  let  the  devil  take  it ; 
thus  unkindly  anticipating  the  fervent  wish  of  some  of  my 
readers.  Adieu. 


PREACHERS  AND  POLITICS— A  CONTRAST. 


The  4  Union’  of  Sunday  (the  19th  ultimo)  brought  out, 
with  a  great  flourish  of  trumpets,  the  Thanksgiving  Sermon 
of  Dr.  Boardman  of  Philadelphia  —  a  religio-political  dis¬ 
course  on  the  dangerous  agitation  and  fanaticism  of  the 
times,  and  on  the  horrors  and  perils  of  disunion.  Its 
morality  is  of  the  low-toned,  time-serving  order;  as  a 
literary  production,  it  is  somewhat  inflated  and  pedantic, 
and  as  much  overloaded  with  quotations  as  some  senatorial 
speeches.  We  know  that  we  may  not,  without  incurring 
the  charge  of  presumption,  attempt  criticism  upon  the 
literary  character,  least  of  all,  upon  the  moral  and  religious 
tone  of  a  discourse  which  has  received  the  patronizing  com¬ 
mendation  of  the  4  Union’  and  the  4  Pennyslvanian.’ 

Hunkerism  boasts  that  the  pacific  and  compromising 
resolutions  of  Union  meetings  call  out  solemn  responses 
from  pulpits  of  highest  respectability,  and  journals  of  the 
most  immaculate  and  unimpeachable  orthodoxy ;  that  great 
numbers  of  the  higher  order  of  the  clergy,  4  rulers  and 
chief  priests,’  are  declaring  against  the  progress,  the  liberal 
opinions,  the  freedom,  and  the  justice  of  the  age ;  coming  up 
to  the  help  of  the  mighty  against  the  Lord.  And  there  is, 
alas!  too  much  ground  for  such  exulting  —  Stuart,  Dewey, 
Brainerd,  Hawkes,  Boardman,  and  many  others,  are  always 
ready  to  answer  the  demands  of  the  dominant  power  for  any 
thing  in  their  line. 

We  have  been  struck  in  the  perusal  of  discourses  in 
vindication  of  slavery,  or  in  support  of  the  Fugitive  Slave 


PREACHERS  AND  POLITICS - A  CONTRAST.  375 

Law,  by  the  careful  avoidance  of  Christ  and  his  teachings. 
The  reverend  speakers  luxuriate  in  vivid  pictures  of  the 
patriarchal  institutions;  of  men  4  after  God’s  own  heart’ 
buying  and  selling  slaves  by  the  score ;  of  hosts  of  servi¬ 
tors,  male  and  female,  in  capacities  of  honor  and  dishonor, 
alike  humble  and  submissive,  gathered  into  one  grand 
household,  and  subservient  to  one  venerable  and  divinely 
appointed  head.  They  even  make  much  of  Paul  sending 
back  Onesimus;  but  they  generally  manage  to  pilot  the  frail 
barque  of  their  reasoning  quite  clear  of  the  Evangelists. 
The  teaching  by  the  seaside  they  pass  by  in  reverent  si¬ 
lence  ;  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  they  dare  not  listen  to,  lest 
it  utterly  confound  them  and  put  them  to  open  shame ;  and 
far  be  it  from  them  to  presume  to  re-enact  that  law  of  God 
which  says,  ‘  Do  unto  others  as  you  would  have  others  do 
unto  you.’  The  Old  Testament  has  been  long  the>  treasure- 
house  from  which  they  have  taken  balsams  to  heal  the  hurts 
of  the  Church  —  it  now  furnishes  assuaging  oil  to  be  poured 
into  the  gaping  wounds  of  the  State,  and  sacred  incense  to 
be  burned  on  the  moustaches  of  the  incensed  chivalry. 
Whoever  disturbs  the  peace  of  the  Church,  and  renders  its 
high  places  perilous,  or  uncomfortable,  is  a  thief  and  a 
robber,  and  is  at  once  to  be  expelled  by  weapons  caught 
from  the  armory  of  most  ancient  Holy  Writ.  When  wil 
the  people  believe,  what  their  spiritual  teachers  are  doing 
their  best  to  convince  them  of,  that  men  wearing  snowy 
neck-cloths,  or  bands  and  surplices,  may  stand  up  in  velvet- 
hung  pulpits  and  read  most  patriotic  and  pacific  discourses  ; 
and  even  turn  over  the  gilded  leaves  of  the  gold-clasped 
volume  before  them  and  cite  the  examples  of  patriarchs, 
priests,  and  kings,  and  all  from  other  motives  than  the  good 
of  souls,  or  even  the  best  good  of  the  church  ? 

We  have  heard  somewhere  a  story  of  an  Indian  who 
went  once  to  the  house  of  a  minister,  and,  sitting  down  in  a 
corner,  with  an  elongated  face,  began  a  religious  conversa¬ 
tion,  in  the  only  way  known  to  him  ;  that  is,  by  solemnly 
repeating  certain  Scripture  names,  thus,  — 


376 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


4  Abraham,  Isaac,  Jacob,’ - 

<  Why,  Tom,  what  do  you  mean  ?  ’  interrupted  the  aston¬ 
ished  divine. 

<  I  mean  cider ,’  frankly  replied  his  copper-colored  friend. 

Were  we  not  fearful  of  being  held  as  4  little  better  than 

one  of  the  wicked,’  we  should  say  that,  in  our  time,  the 
minister  seems  too  often  to  take  the  place  of  the  pool 

Indian ;  talks  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  and  means - . 

But  we  will  leave  the  sentence  unfinished,  and  its  import 
obscure,  for  we  fear  we  were  close  verging  on  irreverence. 

4  Woe ’s  the  day  !  ’  would  our  good  grandfather  have  said, 
4  woe ’s  the  dav,  when  women  set  up  to  rebuke  the  clergy  !  ’ 

Ah,  no,  dear  grandfather,  woe ’s  the  day  when  the  clergy 
deserved  such  reproof ! 

Woman  has -a  deeper  sympathy  with  the  suffering  and 
oppressed  than  man  ;  a  heartier  hatred  of  wrong,  while  her 
contempt  for  unmanliness  and  a  time-serving  expediency  is 
more  intense.  Then,  why  should  she  not  speak  these  out, 
with  all  earnestness  and  sincerity,  even  should  a  share  of 
her  sharp  words  fall  to  the  clergy.  If  that  venerable  body 
are  not  more  faithful  to  their  high  calling,  the  very  children 
will  begin  to  rebuke  them  out  of  their  Sunday  School 

lessons. 

But,  thank  God,  there  are  a  goodly  number  yet  who  have 
not  bowed  the  knee  to  the  Baal  of  Slavery,  nor  been  thrown 
into  spasms  of  fright  by  the  giant  phantom  of  Disunion; 
men  incorruptible  and  undismayed,  who  stand  forth  and 
proclaim  the  true  Gospel,  the  pure  democracy  of  Christ,  as 
it  was  first  proclaimed  by  the  wayside,  on  the  Mount,  and  by 
the  seashore ;  who  boldly  preach  justice  and  freedom,  and 
the  great  primal  law  of  human  right,  which  no  sophistical 
reasoning  can  weaken,  no  compromise  annul,  and  no  legis¬ 
lation  supersede.  Of  such  are  many  of  the  noble  New 
England  clergy  ;  of  such  is  William  Furness  of  Philadel¬ 
phia,  4  not  a  whit  behind  the  chiefest  of  Freedom’s  apostles.’ 
This  true  minister  now  occupies  a  noble  position,  yet  few 


PREACHERS  AND  POLITICS - A  CONTRAST.  0/7 

would  deem  it  an  enviable  one.  He  has  come  up  by  much 
struggling  to  a  great  height,  where  he  must  battle  with  the 
elements  to  maintain  his  stand ;  where  he  has  indeed  the 
clear  sunshine  of  God’s  approval ;  but  where  he  must  miss 
the  quiet,  the  genial  light  and  warmth,  and  the  pleasant 
companionship  of  the  L  valley-land.’  True,  his  feet  are  set 
upon  a  rock  ;  but  it  is  a  rock  in  the  midst  of  angry  waters, 
between  him  and  much  which  made  life  beautiful  and 
happy  rolls  a  deep  sea,  which  may  never  be  recrossed.  It 
is  not  the  malice  of  foes  which  tries  the  soul  of  the  reformer, 
but  the  alienation  of  friends  ;  it  is  not  the  new  hate  fiercely 
poured  upon  his  head,  but  the  old  love  coldly  withdrawn 
from  his  heart. 

Many  and  inestimable  are  the  sacrifices  which  Mr.  Fur¬ 
ness  has  made  of  the  friendships  and  confidences,  and 
pleasant  associations  of  years,  by  his  open  and  ardent 
advocacy  of  the  most  unpopular  of  unpopular  causes.  His 
reward  is  sure,  nor  yet  altogether  in  the  future.  When  our 
treasures  are  truly  laid  up  in  heaven,  we  do  not  fail  to  re¬ 
ceive  the  interest  here.  To  him  it  comes  daily  in  a  quicken¬ 
ing  of  life  —  a  deepening  fervor,  a  larger  growth  of  power  — 
a  miraculous  increase  of  that  childlike  faith  which  leads  the 
soul  to  loose  its  grasp  on  all  human  dependences,  and  seize 
hold  on  the  sure  promise  of  God,  though  to  be  swung  out 
into  darkness,  and  dragged  through  deeps.  He  does  not 
preach  that  stern  Roman  justice  whose  motto  is,  ‘  Do  right, 
though  the  heavens  fall !  ’  but  rather  says,  Do  right  and  the 
heavens  will  not  fall.  If  they  have  been  pillared  by  the 
mercy  and  forbearance  of  God  thus  long,  and  have  not 
come  down  in  blackness  to  whelm  a  world  of  wrongs  and 
oppressions,  far  less  will  be  the  peril  when  men  begin  to 
4  Do  justly  and  love  mercy.’  Then  shall  the  skies  smile  in 
brightness,  and  shower  down  blessings  ;  then  shall  be  peace 
and  true  union;  for  freedom,  equality,  and  fraternity,  shall 
unite  in  indestructible  bonds,  not  one  nation  alone,  but  all 
nations ;  then  will  be  the  world-wide  recognition  of  that 

33 


378 


GREENWOOD  LEAVES. 


only  true  principle  of  Democracy,  cradled  in  a  manger,  and 
reared  at  a  carpenter’s  bench  ;  the  hope  of  the  poor  and 
oppressed  of  all  ages,  and  the  final  redemption  of  'the 
degraded,  corrupt,  and  dissolute,’  whether  they  be  found 
among  free  colored  men  or  enslaved  white  men. 


I 


\ 


ft 


